Running with knives
by Tollandm
Summary: "We are all human"—A woman writes her memoirs, telling of her connection to The Joker. — Joker/OC
1. Chapter One

RE-EDIT—PROLOGUE—

Yes! I am finally back, I know—anyway, before I continue on with newer chapters I figured I'd tweak everything up here a little—assuming everyone is still interested after my long hiatus!

_DISCLAIMER—_I own Batman...on DVD only! So don't be so serious, kids.

* * *

It'll be in the morning. The sky will be orange bleeding into red and crimson. The clouds will be silver edged and still as a painting. I'll be driving upwards, away from the city. I feel the rush. The slope of the hill reaches its peak.

My face is warmed by the rising sun finally shining on me. Then as I start to ride down the other side the car speeds up and it gently pulls across to the right. Approaching me on the other side is a truck; it's so close I can hear it. It eclipses the sun. A block of cold shining metal and wheels, and my arms are turning the car more and more towards it. My eyes open and I watch myself smile in the mirror. Then just as the metal grinds into oncoming metal, as the horn burns through my ears, I unclip my seatbelt.

Then most times in an intense glass shattering flash I'll wake up.

But not this day, I lived this moment with a sense of deja vu, and I stayed awake in the dream. I felt it all. I lived death in full consciousness. My body grinded through metal and glass. Ripped and stripped apart. I flew in all directions and spread my blood and bones and teeth across the asphalt. I felt it all.  
And only after flying high up in the morning air, looking down upon the bloody mess and smoking debris I gradually swam into waking life.

And I awoke more than I felt I ever had.

It was a good time to be alive and lucrative. For me that is. I'm nothing extraordinary, really.

I'm not an angst-filled teenager waiting to be kidnapped. I'm not someone who is always at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't love crime.  
The truth is, I'm just a hard-working single mother trying to raise her son as best she can.

But the thing is, there's always something there. There's always something about each and every individual that defines us as who we are. The choices we make, the things we like. What we believe in - that creates our stories.

My story isn't one of exaggerated melodramatic angst, nor is it something that happens everyday. But it's common enough. Women who find themselves joined to psychopaths..

I am Adelheid-Roche Napier.

That is not an introduction. There is no need for one. You don't know me and I don't know you.

I am merely recounting my memoirs in the hopes that you will understand a little more, learn something and have a clearer knowledge that a person cannot be judged by their deeds alone, not without reason. Not only that- but this is also my job. It's only just occurred to me to write something we can all benefit from besides the mindless drivel I'm known for.

I used to be obsessed with the idea of true love. The kind you get in fairy tales or movies. But I never believed in it.

Reality loves tragedy, even if you don't want it.

Love is not beautiful. It eats you from the inside out, it manipulates and it takes control and once you're in, you can't leave because it's become a part of you. You can't leave because no matter how much it tears and hurts you, it's still the best feeling in the world. Love is a Stockholm Syndrome.

The man I fell in love with is nothing like the one you knew, the one you heard and read about.. well, they are quite similar, in certain aspects. But that's besides the point.  
I want to tell you my story, Our story. In the hopes that at the end of the day, you can remember that we're only human.. and you may understand a little more than you did.

And perhaps you will. As not even I knew that the man I fell in love with and married would become what we'd later all grow to fear.

The Joker.


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO—EDIT

Enjoy, lovelies!

_t_

* * *

I'd be lying if I told you that I was overjoyed the day I found out I was pregnant.

You see, only a month before, Jack had disappeared—he was gone, along with some of his things—and there was no note or anything to ease my worries.

Something dreadful washed over me. It must've been about midday, I think.

I got on a train with the hope of being uplifted—even though there was nothing even remotely happy about the dreary station. I was watching a lady with a young girl—her daughter, I guessed.

"Mum, I don't think you can drink alcohol on the train." I heard.

The woman took another swig of her Jim Beam and coke.

"See mum, up there it says, 'No Alcohol'", I looked up and saw the sign the girl was pointing to—she was right.

"Well, I don't think anyone is gonna take away my beer. And if someone comes I'll just throw it out the window." The woman replied, not removing the drink from her lips.

"But these windows don't open."—The girl.

"_Look!_ No one is gonna come along. The only problem is if some Christian Librarian turns me in. So...don't..." The lady noticed some Mediterranean looking men whom I hadn't seen, she shouted at them.

"What the _fuck_ are you saying? It's _rude_ to talk about people in other languages. If you want to say something, say it to my face."

I didn't turn to see the men, but I didn't hear them say anything either.

"Mum what are they saying?" Piped the girl.

"They are being _fucking _rude." She replied, directing the 'fucking' towards the men. She then finished her can and threw it to the ground. I watched the girl look up to the 'No Littering' sign, but she didn't say anything. Neither did I...until later when I found out I was about a month pregnant.

* * *

He's a good kid, my son—Klaus Napier—there isn't anything I wouldn't do for him, within reason, of course!

I think that stems not only from the fact that I'm his mother, but because when he was born I felt a twinge of pity for him. He is so, so much like his father...and I just thank whatever higher power out there that he is like me as well. I couldn't live with myself if I watched my own son slowly descend into the same pit of fire that his dad dug up and fell into years ago.

_Let me take you back a couple of years, back to when I came to Gotham...back to when I met Jack again._

"Mama, who would win in a fight. A lion or a bear?" The curious little voice of a 5-year-old Klaus asked me. We were at home—a comfortable little apartment on the nicer side of Gotham, eating pasta and talking nonsense.

"Hmm, I'm not too sure, love...maybe a lion." I answered, putting my dish in the sink and grabbing a sponge to wipe up the glorious mess Klaus managed to make with a small bowl of pasta and sauce.

"But why the lion? Isn't a bear just as strong as a lion, Ma?" He said.

"Oh I bet he is! Who do you think would win, Klaus?" I asked him, smiling at his inquisitiveness.

"Um...I think the bear will win!" He exclaimed, bouncing on his chair—just like his father would do when he was excited.

"Mama, can we get a pet bear?"

I laughed, "Klaus, bear aren't allowed to be pets...especially not here. We wouldn't be able to take proper care of him." I said, looking over at him.

"Oh." He said, slumping a little as he pouted his lip.

"But, we might be able to get a dog." I added, grinning as he perked up again.

By the time I had put Klaus to bed, I had become lost in my thoughts. Looking at the little boy who resembled his father so much...it seemed these days my thoughts only seemed to consist of Jack—which would only depress me as I came into the habit of torturing myself with wondering and asking questions. You know the kind, "What if...?".

Everyone seems to have this obsession with infinity. Everything and everyone has to last forever. I don't understand it. Paintings are kept behind bullet proof glass and last forever. They last longer than anyone who ever thought to consider it a piece of art. Animals are stuffed and stuck on a wall in sick, unnatural screams of death, forever frozen. People hold up fossils of sea creatures in fascination, saying how amazing it is to think that it is a million years old. But all I can think is: it's just a shitty old rock, maybe a million years ago it was something special but now it's not. We want everything to last but nothing does—we can't be hoarders—everything changes from breath to breath, you can't hold onto anything and expect it to keep you afloat. Even anything that is a part of you will grow and change. To try and make something last for eternity is to kill and change it.

* * *

When I came back to Gotham about a year or two ago, I arrived with a strange sense of foreboding. In all honesty I don't even know why I came back...I had never liked Gotham city. The gloomy, dark depressing state of it combined with the crime rate made me constantly question my decision. Personally, I preferred the quiet countryside I grew up in. With the woods, mountains, the lake—nature—but I suppose I felt a pull...back towards Gotham.

There are times that I can think back to. There are places that I remember, people too. But it's all the past. I don't think back with any emotion other than sorrow now. Things I thought I knew, I realise now I never did. I can think of love as something I never really knew, to try and fool myself. Love doesn't die, love doesn't change. Love is never remembered with regret. There is so much I know I will never understand.

In this day now, today, I see the children in the park. It's a park with wide open grass, lined with tall trees that first sprouted in a different time. Klaus and these kids dressed by their parents in bright glowing colours

I watch them play. There is a group of mothers watching them too. This whole group is secure. I can see how easy it is for them to all help and support each other, but how hard it would be to join this group to get help. Emotional or physical—even though I mean emotional. People grow and mature collectively. The people who raise you to turn into them. People are effected by their surroundings, and the best surroundings are good people.

I should've seen what would become of Jack. I should've known. You can't change a person no matter how hard you try.

I am the sum of all the people I've ever met, that's what makes me an individual.

These young boys and girls playing now, will be there for each other in years to come. Some for better and some for worse. And it sickens me to know that no matter what he does, there will always be that small part of Klaus that will remain an outcast. I cannot change that. I cannot change who I am. I cannot change who I have become. Only if I were to go back to the beginning of it all could I then make a difference. But if I was to start it all from scratch I would not try to help myself, but someone else. Give them a chance. The only sort of help I can do in my life at the moment is through Klaus...or my job—though help could be confused with destruction.

I see this, kids playing and I think of that old saying, 'the children are our future'. It's wrong, it's getting it the wrong way around, we create our children's future. We are our children's future. There is so much I don't know or understand. To know this makes me stronger.

* * *

"**WILL THE BATMAN REVEAL HIMSELF FOR GOTHAM?"**

I scoffed at the newspaper. Turning the page to read something other than how amazing Harvey Dent was, or who Batman was, or if The Joker was ever going to be stopped—and how terrible he was. News these days had turned into crap. I wanted to read something else, something that didn't tell me about all the bad shit happening in the world—or skiing squirrels. That always seemed to annoy me. Why is it that every time something awful happens, the news will be there to cover the story—yet do nothing to help?

By this stage I've stopped looking at the world around me. I can't think about anything I know or knew without being a little biased. So I'm looking at the big picture, I'm trying to see some reason. I kept my eyes open for good today. I saw smiles and families. I saw lovers in arms and friends in groups. At McDonald's there was a child's birthday party. And I did see the smiles of children. It seemed untainted and innocent, or ignorant maybe. I saw joy on a corner. At a bus-stop waited happiness. Through a door walked forgiveness and out walked love. I saw this when I looked hard enough, but it didn't fool me. It seemed fake, unreal, a false viewing, an illusion of tranquility. I wanted to know that goodness was there. That something out there cared. I wanted some sort of faith. But I don't think you can gain faith if you lack it.

How am I supposed to believe when I don't even believe in myself. I'm more scared that there is something out there than worried there isn't. What good faith has ever come from us in the name of something bigger than an individual human. Faith is against truth. I don't hold stock in it, I'd want to know if someone is my creator so I can actually hate them rather than question their existence.

The same people were on the steps of the station that I''d seen before. That I'd seen many times before. With their smiles, luring you in like salesmen. I once asked a man why he came here with his messages and voice. He told me that is was God's will, that he had no choice but to send out God's message. He said he didn't do it for himself, he didn't do it for the people he spoke to either, he did it for God.

I asked him what he got in return.

I walked to a nearby park and sat on the grass, watching the clouds float by. Klaus was at school and I was trying to slow my thoughts down. People actually thought that by having Batman show his true identity that the Joker would stop his reign of chaos? What would a world of chaos prove anyhow? A person needs to have some level of self-control. Just because we _can_ do something, doesn't mean we have to.

Sitting up I looked at the time..._2:46PM_—I had to go and pick up Klaus from school, and then what? I had been invited to Harvey Dent's fundraiser party tonight.

Inwardly I groaned and mentally thanked Bruce Wayne. I sighed, not entirely sure why I was going to this—I wasn't one of Gotham's "Crème de la crème"—but I figured that since I owed Bruce a favour, I would go...he'd just have to deal with the fact that I couldn't find a babysitter in time.

* * *

_Re-review?_


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE—EDIT

Enjoy, and follow on—I am back, I swear—if you're still interested.

_t_

* * *

Once again Bruce Wayne had outdone himself. The party was so prestigious, I was waiting for the next person to come up to me and talk about their money and achievements just so I could stab them in the face with a brick.

I looked over at Klaus who was enjoying helping himself to the shrimp, smiling at anyone who would coo over him. I laughed to myself—the little charmer, looking adorable in his tux that he insisted he wear his converse shoes with.

I looked over as Rachel Dawes came up to me. We weren't exactly friends, but we went to school together and would call on one another every now and then for a favour.

"Adelheid! I haven't seen you in years! How have you been?" She asked me.

I shrugged, looking into my champagne-flute, "Okay, I guess...I have a son." I added—chuckling at the shock on her face.

"You had a baby? That's amazing!" She congratulated, leaning in to hug me.

"Uh, he's not exactly a baby...Klaus is 4 and a half." I said, glancing up at her.

Her smile dropped in realisation, "...Oh." She said.

I admit, after Jack left. Rachel was one of the people I had run to cry on.

Sometimes when you hide a secret you are really just keeping the truth from yourself. You can push something deep down, so no one else can know it, so they can never fully understand you. But when they look at you they never see you complete, they see an unexplainable hollowness, which may only reveal itself in quick passing moments. If you become scared, angry, afraid or any major emotion, it may be clear to someone else that they don't truly know you. This only waters the buried knowledge and if you aren't careful it could grow so big, everyone will see it but you. Others will try to help you to overcome a burden or problem, but not knowing what they are seeing is only the submerged top of the iceberg.

You may seek help. Although you reach out you still keep one arm to yourself, hidden behind your back, just out of sight. And as much as you may be addicted to the truth, you mainly hide your past from your own future. But mostly you try it keep it from yourself. Does that answer anything?

I filled Rachel in on all the details from the last few years, and I'm sure she went over to stare at Klaus like an idiot but I wasn't paying much heed.

I find it strange that I've spent the majority of my time people-watching and observing others—and as different as each individual may seem I've discovered that we're all pretty much the same, really. We're constantly trying to justify ourselves at every turn that it seems like half the time we forget what we're really about. A person with a different view of the world, on politics, on law—they're cast aside and locked up in a straight-jacket. They lose their jobs, becoming nothing more than the man lying in the gutter, the guy trying to find answers at the bottom of a bottle of wine, that person who tried to preach his views to you, in his dirty old clothes. The smell of his unwashed form permeating through the air around him.

Because we're prejudiced and shallow. Even if we say we're not, even if we try our best not to be. There's only so much that can be done to change the world. People will never change. Times will change—seasons, trends, years...each new generation will grow up around different things—but people will never change.

I suppose I had spaced out when that gunshot went off, and that murderous band of clowns stepped out of the elevator. A cold rush of fear swept over me and I scanned the room for Klaus...why did that boy like to run off at the worst possible times?

_Not near the food, not with Rachel, not with Bruce...where is he?_

I heard the Joker asking around for Harvey, scaring the daylights out of various people. Helping himself to food and champagne like he was merely a late guest. I grimaced and rolled my eyes as some man and Rachel decided to speak up. It's great to have a backbone but it doesn't do much justice by deciding to grow one now. I pushed my way up to the front just in time to witness the Joker drop Rachel out of the window and see Batman dive after her.

Finally spotting Klaus as he walked in through one of the many doors—I rushed to him as the crowd ran, screaming in fear and panic to the exits.

I apparently forgot to bolt as soon as the boy was in my arms, as I felt the cold twinge of metal pressed against the side of my neck—gentle—yet dangerous.

"And what do we have here?" Came the deep, yet childlike voice—every bit as infamous as it's owner.

I slowly stood up and turned to face him. Keeping my expression blank while his own remained amused.

Yet, as soon as my eyes locked with his, I froze. Shock settled itself within me as I stared into his familiar dark eyes. It was impossible. Yet here he was, standing before me with a painted face and a knife against my throat. I was so caught up in my own emotions that I didn't see the same shock reflected in his own eyes, even as that cruel grin stayed plastered to his face, even as the hand that held his knife slowly lowered from my neck.

"_You...J-Jack..."_ I whispered, my voice trailing off. He said nothing, just continued to look at me, as if I was a ghost. Klaus tightened his hold on me and whimpered as half his face was buried in the crook of my shoulder.

Jack's eyes suddenly snapped to Klaus, staring at him as they clouded over with something I couldn't comprehend.

And the second it left, so did Jack, it seemed—because suddenly I was looking at the Joker again, and it dawned on me the reality of the situation—and I was petrified. The grin on his sinister face reappeared and I knew that this was not the man I used to know. This man standing in front of me had no problem ending a life and I found myself fearing more for my son than myself. I took a step backwards and he tutted, "Now where do you think you're going, _toots?_ Not trying to leave, hmm?" He said—trying to contain his manic laughter.

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to move back again but as I bumped into a chest I realised with fear that if I left here tonight, _alive_—I wouldn't leave without some kind of wound. I only prayed that Klaus would stay safe...his bottom lip had stuck out, the telltale sign he was scared and upset as he whimpered, "Mama, I'm scared." into my dress.

I looked back at the Joker, "What are you going to do?" I asked, watching him with a heedful eye as he cackled and pranced over to me.

"Does it look like I'm going to _do_ something—?" He paused, his tongue flicking out to the corner of his mouth, at his scars...an old habit. "—I'm going to _do_ a lot of things-_uh_...send a message, create chaos.._.ha ha, ho—"_ He paused a second time, most likely for dramatic effect, or maybe because he noticed my narrowed eyes...which only caused him to chuckle some more.

"_What_ am I going to _do_, with _you_..._you_ and you little..._uh-leech._" He said, circling me, waving his knife around carelessly and nicking Klaus on the cheek in the process which only caused him to grab me tighter and sob.

"_...Why so serious,_ bea_-uuu-_tiful?" He growled at me, coming right up in my personal space so he could talk in my ear, "You really ought'a _smile_ more. I don't like it when people are serious. _Not. One. Bit..._Especially when they've got such a gorgeous smile like _you_." He cackled, that glinting blade dangerously close to my mouth.

I forced a sweet smile on my face, as though I was happy to see him. _Happy_ to be in this horrid situation.

Funny, how powerful a person can suddenly become just by holding a potential weapon. I know that if Jack—pardon me—The Joker, hadn't had a weapon of any sort in access I'd be nowhere near as terrified as I was now.

Before anything could happen though, the sounds of sirens coming from not too far away floated in, causing one of the Joker's thugs to yell, "Boss! Cops!".

The Joker sighed and rolled his eyes, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me close so I was nose to nose with him.

"Looks like our fun's been cut short, _doll_. We'll have to do this again sometime...I'll be seeing you, _uh, around_." He said, winking at me before his manic laughter returned. Then, ruffling Klaus's hair—probably to amuse himself as the whimpering the poor boy was doing—he whistled a jaunty tune as he followed the rest of his team out.


	4. Chapter Four

Hello lovelies!

(Assuming you've been able to bear with me here)

Anyway, here's another "Re-edit" chapter, more to come—we'll get there before brand new ones come along! I swear!

_t_

* * *

**FOUR**

You know when there are times that you think you've lost something really valuable or special to you, and no matter how hard you look and search, you can't find it?

That was the feeling I was currently experiencing. You spend all this time looking outside of the box, when the whole time it's been right there in front of you.

It sounds so simple, right? No...

Because when you spend a great deal of time away from something, the next time you see it your feelings towards it won't be the same. People who dislike each other become the best of friends. The best of friends become strangers. Couples become mundane and bored. Children grow up and become a pain in the arse. Kids will go through a phase where they can't live without a certain toy—one day that toy may roll under the couch and the child will cry and cry because they can't find it—they forget, and one day during a clean out they will find it, and it becomes nothing more than junk in a yard sale. All this time, the person that I had been looking for, he was someone else as well.

My reaction wasn't what I had expected...

I had expected to be furious, to be cold and unforgiving and yet wanting to love him all the same. But instead I felt a dulled anger, the kind that just throbs inside your head like a blunt heartbeat—instead I was filled with sorrow and unusual sadness. I felt betrayed. I felt confused. I wanted to hit him, I wanted to kiss him—I wanted _him_. I didn't _know_ what I wanted. But I know that he had become something terrifying and I was afraid of what was going to happen.

...Not afraid of what was going to happen to me, but afraid of what was going to happen with the safety of my child.

I was angry, and I didn't know who I was more angry at, myself or Jack. I don't even think it would have made a difference. I was angry at Jack because when he left he made me feel like I should have expected it to happen, like I should have seen it coming at me—that's what happens when you over-analyse everything and come to the conclusion that you've done something wrong. I was angry at him for making me feel like I had run things into the ground—I like things, I love things, but then things change and I lose—if I like it, I obsess it—until I have no choice but hate...like friends who are so open with each other that they reveal too much and become total strangers.

I was angry at him for causing me to think that. But I was angry at myself for believing it.

It's funny—you find a glimmer of happiness in this world and there's always someone out there to destroy it...it was only cruel that the cause of my happiness was also the one to destroy it.

Today was just another ordinary day, really. Klaus was at school and I was sitting at home writing. Perhaps it wasn't the wisest of things to do, I know. I really do. You're probably sitting there reading this, shaking your fists at me and yelling, _"You idiot! __**The Joker**__ said that he'll be '__**seeing you around'**__—what the hell are you doing?"_

I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm sitting through another day in Gotham. The Joker may be The Joker, yes. But he is also still Jack on some element. That's why I'm not running.

If he says that he'll find me, then he will. That's why I'm not running off on some pointless game of cat and mouse—because in the end, I'll still be caught.

I knew that, at the very least, Klaus was safe for the time being. Mainly because the Joker never saw his face that night.

I've decided that if I know there's a danger to him, it'll be home-schooling for him.

Home...it's a funny word. I've been in Gotham for four years and it still doesn't feel like home.

I'm not sure if I've ever considered anywhere I've lived to be home...

That's the strange thing about houses—how they can change through time and perspective to become something more. You could live in a house for 10 years and still be searching for a home—sometimes it's not until you pack 20 years worth of your life into cardboard boxes and mark them fragile that you realise you've just sold away your home and told someone it was just a brick house.

Even though I had been expecting him to turn up again at some point, I was still surprised when he scared the daylights out of me that day.

With Klaus at school, and me on a break—I was lounging on the couch watching an Asian movie called Cinderella on World Movies. It was only during one particular bit where a little girl was crying for her mother that I heard the amused voice the Joker mocking the young actress.

"'_Mummy, mummy, mummy!_' Sounds a lot like that little rugrat of _yours_, _ha-ha_!" He cackled, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he did.

As the shock filled me I jumped about 5 feet into the air before falling face first on the floor—only fuelling to the Joker's constant amusement.

"Y'know, that's not a very nice thing to say," I replied, annoyed.

With raised eyebrows, he strode over to the couch and fell back onto it—putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"So, why are you here anyway?" I asked, watching him lick his lips in that aggravatingly habitual way of his and roll his eyes

"I _thought_ I had _told_ you—"

But I cut him off, "Yeah, yeah yeah, I know that part, you're going to keep dropping by at any given time. What I meant was, why?" I said, nowhere near as terrified as I had been on our last encounter, as the person I was trying to protect was currently safe, therefore I was at ease...for the time being, anyway.

He grinned roguishly, "Can't a guy visit...old _friends_?"

Ah. Now I understood...at least I think I did. Now that we had happened upon each other again, he didn't want me to go around telling Gordon, Batman and the wonder-team all about who he is, or rather..._was_.

I burst into laughter. I couldn't help it as I realised the absurdity of the situation. _He_ wanted me to keep quiet about his identity. This man who went by the name of _The Joker_. This subversive killer.

And so what if I let slip of his identity—what would that gain me? If anything, that would put me at risk, and not just with Jack...but with the whole of Gotham or whoever it was that knew.

Jack raised his eyebrows at my sudden outburst, amused—"Care to share your..._uh, amusement_. I do _love_ a good laugh." He growled, and from my spot on the floor he looked all the more intimidating, dominant, powerful. My stomach as our staring contest continued. He was still the very epitome of masculinity. Alluring, dangerous, animalistic. He was _him_, and somewhere in my fantasy world, he was still _mine_.

I was struck with an overwhelming feeling of sheer want. I wanted him. I wanted tied up, blindfolded and gagged so I wouldn't have to deal with this sick man's gaze or his words.

The bastard knew the effect he was currently having on me. Sitting there with his hands behind his head, that smug smirk covering his face...I wanted to slap it off.

My gaze trailed to his hands...those hands that had killed, those hands that had kept me up many a night. I closed my eyes and willed myself to calm down.

I hated him for doing this. I hated him for disappearing. I hated him for his games, I hated his sudden reappearance after I had given up hope.

I felt his hand shake me a little—probably due to my extended silence—wanting the attention back on him. I shook him off, "Get out," I whispered.

He suddenly giggled, "Get out? I uh, I don't think that you're in any position to be ordering me aroun_d_." He clucked, grabbing my arm with bruising force and wrenching me around to face him. The amusement in his eyes was momentarily replaced by what seemed to be shock, but I couldn't tell as it was only there was for a split-second—and it was no wonder really, the look on my face as he spun me around with such brute force was positively _murderous_. I was usually a very placid woman, but this man liked to push at my boundaries.

Pointing an accusing finger at him, I took a menacing step towards him, every emotion possible bursting into an inferno in my eyes.

"_You_ have got a lot of nerve to come here," I started, my voice low and quiet, "To come here and order me around as though there's nothing wrong, like we're old _friends_." I gave his chest a firm push, forcing him backwards.

"_How dare you!_ How dare _you_ come back into my life and threaten me! You arrogant, imperious, heartless _louse_! You should be on your bloody _knees_—for what you put me through! _NO! Don't you dare try to speak!_" I yelled, pushing him back each time to emphasise my words, using more force every time—"How dare you appear after five years, and threaten me and my _son!_—" I cried, stopping once he grabbed my wrists in his incredibly painful grasp. His eyes aflame, as he pushed me back so hard that my back collided with the wall and I was positive that there would be an indenture of my body.

I knew he was incredibly angry, but so was I. The anger that charged the air around us was almost poisonous. And seeing him angry only made me furious, so much so that I thought any more would have me foaming at the mouth. He had no right to be angry, none at all.

He opened his mouth to yell at me, but nothing came out—in fact he wasn't even looking at me anymore. Confused, the sound of boiling blood in my ears faded as I looked to the now open door and at the child standing in shock in the doorway, my angry quickly died and suddenly I was weary and afraid.

I went to approach him but found my hands still within a death-grip. Looking at Jack I saw him staring at Klaus right in the face, a look of pure shock and terror on his features. Right now, I noted grimly, he looked identical to Klaus.

That's when the sudden realisation hit me, _'looked identical'. _My fear suddenly increased as I kept my eyes trained on Jack, waiting to see what he would do.

But it wasn't him that did anything.

"Mama, what's hap'ning?" Klaus asked in a small voice.

* * *

_I heard you liked reviewing so I put a review box in your review so you can review while you review. _


	5. Chapter Five

See? I'm keeping my word!

Also, huge love to all the people who've added this to their story alerts—both old and new—I do try, honestly.

Keep the love flowing.

_t_

* * *

**FIVE**

"Mama, what's hap'ning?" Klaus asked, staring wide-eyed at the man in the face-paint who had his mother by the wrists.

I wasn't ready for this to happen. I didn't _want_ this to happen. I didn't want this to happen. I closed my eyes and hoped that I would wake up soon. Why did this have to happen, and _now_?

Slowly I exhaled and opened my eyes to see that nothing had changed. It must have looked bad, I surmised. As the young boy stared at the scene before him. Here was a man who, only a few weeks before had scared the daylights out of them at that party, and was now standing in their apartment, looming menacingly over the almost five-years old's mother, with her wrists in a crushing grip.

I watched as Klaus ran over to me and pushed Jack away with every fibre in his little being, "_Don't touch my mama!_" He said, glowering as he hugged my legs.

None of us could speak, the secret was out—it seemed, or at least to only one of them. I began to shake...

_I didn't want this to happen._

—"Mama, are you okay?" Klaus whispered to me, his big brown eyes looking innocently up at me. I smiled, albeit a little shakily, at him and knelt down to his level, "I'm fine, love, don't worry yourself so. How about you go and play for a little while, hmm?" I asked, attempting a reassuring smile as I hugged him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Okay mama, luv you." He said, his small arms wrapping around me neck.

"Love you." I whispered, and watched him glare at Jack before running to his room.

It was silent. Too silent, and it stayed silent for too long.

Finally, Jack looked at me, "... Are there any _other_ little, _uh, surprises_ that you'd like to tell me about?" He asked, slowly.

My eyes narrowed, but I ignored him.

I wondered how much more of this I could take before I went insane. I should have expelled the thought from my mind as soon as it appeared, for being so selfish—and yet I didn't, I embraced it.

Would it really be so bad? There is a reason why they say that ignorance is bliss.

But who knows, maybe I was wrong. Maybe we are all insane—each and every one of us. We're complete stark-raving mad with outrageous beliefs and opinions.

I used to believe in karma, a long time ago. I don't really think I ever stopped believing in it. I just lost reach of it and somewhere, it's lying in my mind—covered with dust, waiting to be renewed.

I used to believe in a lot of things, actually. Nowadays I'm filled with something akin to emptiness.

Mostly because people have a hunger to connect with other people on some level. They're desperate to know that you're not lying to them or misleading them.

But the problem is that everyone lies. Whether it's to protect or if it's just out of habit, we all do it.

But nobody is looking at the picture properly. We're looking at the wrong thing. When we see others and judge them, we judge them on what they're made of—it's not what we're made of, because people are made of what they think others think they're made of; it's what we're stitched with.

I myself, am made entirely of flaws, but stitched together with good intentions.

"Answer me!" Came the angry growl of the man in front of me.

"Oh, _oh sure!_ Let's see, well I was thinking of becoming a nun or an advocate for the peace-corps and just yesterday discovered a cure for HIV!" I snapped.

He ignored my sarcasm as he was so good at doing and grabbed my wrist—which was beginning to resemble Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dream-coat, and pulled me to sit on the couch, none too gently—yet I'm sure you could've guessed that. He sat next to me and as our eyes locked, I realised that he was incredibly serious. A very rare thing to witness.

And yet, before he could even say anything the words were already pouring out of my mouth like _J.K Rowling's 'Veritaserum'._

"What do you want me to say to you, Jack? _'Why didn't I tell you?'_, I didn't tell you because you were gone! When I found out that I was how many months pregnant, you were nowhere to be found!" I said, my voice raising slightly in frustration.

For once in his life, he remained silent.

I've always found it strange how sometimes just a word of information can come as so much of a shock to a person, that their entire demeanour changes.

I always told myself, _"All I want is a normal life"_, but was that true? I wasn't so sure. I've grown up around abnormal people and found myself in abnormal situations. My life had _become_ abnormal. Because there was a part of me that enjoyed hating school as a kid, and the drama of not going, the potential consequences, whatever they were. I was intrigued by the unknown. I was even slightly thrilled when my mother became such a mess. Had I become addicted to crisis? I'd trace my finger along the windowsill. "Want something normal, want something normal, want something normal", I'd tell myself.

He was so quiet that I knew that for the time being, this was the end of our talk. At least until he got his head around this new piece of information.

As he sat there, lost in thought. I allowed myself to drift back to thoughts I had locked away. Not even thoughts...I suppose the only logical wording for it was the _past_.

I don't pretend that I've been through the worst possible things a person can experience. I don't understand those who do. But just like the majority of the world, I've had my share of a haughty past and childhood.

It's not that I'm saying that I'm just the same as the next person. Because I most definitely am _not_. Like cubic zircona, I only look real. I'm a impostor. The fact is, I am not like other people.

_I'm not like other people, but I am._

There's always so much more to a person than the hard outer shell we all seem to build around ourselves.

I knew Jack from the young age of six. The both of us were six, I suppose. Looking back on it now. If I still believed in karma, I'd say that we were most likely destined to meet.

It really is a long story that I can only retell in small bits.

Maybe that's reason as to why the two of us turned out the way we did. Normal was the furthest thing to the way we grew up.

I decided a long time ago that a person can never really understand an unorthodox way of living unless they've lived it themselves.

* * *

"_Well, the only way I could see me getting you out of school for any considerable length of time would be for you...to commit suicide" The doctor told me._

"_...You want me to kill myself?" I'd replied._

"_Well if you tried to kill yourself, I could explain to the school-board that you were psychologically unfit to attend and that you needed intensive treatment. It would be a staged suicide attempt. Of course, your poor mother would have to find you and drive you to the hospital, where you would stay for three weeks or a month for observation." He said. _

"_I don't know...it doesn't—" he cut me off,_

"_Adelheid, where is your spirit of adventure?"_

See what I mean? No, I don't see how you would. It must seem a little confusing. The thing is, when my family was only beginning to have problems my mother found a doctor by the name of Dr. Lynett. He often held his practice from home and while my parents spent days and hours there every week, I would stay downstairs and sit awkwardly with his family. Only, his family consisted of a jittery wife and a pious daughter. The rest of them were children who happened to be in the custody of the Lynett's, with their parents also undergoing treatment or locked in the nut-house.

"_Eat your peas, Adelheid, so you can be strong enough to fight off President Clinton's sexual advances"_.

Living with people like that for a number of years make a sure impact on a person.

That's how I met Jack, his mother was also seeing the shifty doctor and left him downstairs during her sessions.

If I wanted to be selfish and blame someone, I'd most likely blame Dr. Lynett for ruining everyone's lives.

And yet, were would we be with out our pain?

* * *

Klaus's head hesitantly popped out around the corner, "Mama?" He asked.

"What's wrong?" I asked, taking a quick glance next to me, glad to see that Jack seemed to be in some sort of daze as he stared at Klaus with a very unreadable expression on his face.

"Mama, I'm hungry!" He demanded, running over to me—a blanket around his neck, acting as a cape. I laughed. This boy, he was always hungry!

"Come on, buddy, I'll make you something." I said, ruffling his hair as he scuttled after me.

I sat in the kitchen, looking out the window when Klaus startled me

"Mama, is he okay?" He asked hesitantly, cautiously glancing at the door.

I smiled, not quite knowing how to answer..._I had absolutely no idea if he was okay_.

"He's alright, luv', just a little bit of a shock is all." I said, hoping that he wouldn't do anything to cause..._harm_.

"Why is he here, mama? He tried to hurt us."

"...We used to know each other, a long time ago." I quietly replied.

"Were you friends?"

"Yes, Klaus, we were good friends." I sighed.

"Oh. Did he know my papa?" He asked.

It was an innocent question, but I couldn't help but feel guilty. I couldn't keep lying to him. He was just a boy who wanted nothing more than to know his hero, his father.

I had to keep reminding myself that it was the right thing to do. It was for his own well-being.

_I'm not lying to him, I'm just leaving out a few things_...I would have to say. Which was true in a way, after all, the man sitting on my living room couch _did_ know Klaus's dad—_he was him_.

It was for the best, I repeated. But as I looked at the desperate, hopeful face in front of me I felt my mantra fading away.

Was it really for the best? I didn't think it was.

I smiled at him "Yes, Klaus...he knew your papa." _He is your papa!_ I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell, pull my hair...something, anything. I wanted to beat myself up for being so weak and lying to a perfectly innocent child.

I hated myself for putting the cheshire grin, the sheer joy and happiness onto his face like that.

I was anguished at what he did next.

He bolted to the living room and jumped onto the couch Jack was sitting on, looking at him in a new light, sitting as close to him as humanly possible and suddenly rather shy.

"...Will you tell me a story about my papa?" He exclaimed rather loudly, grabbing Jack's hand and sweetly looking up at him.

I don't think anyone was prepared for that.

* * *

Leave us some love—it makes my day. :)


	6. Chapter Six

Hello sweethearts!

Here's another edit...we're getting there, don't worry. Not much longer now I swear!

Anyway, I hope it is all better now that I'm cleaning up the story a little.

Enjoy!

_t _

* * *

** SIX**

I don't know how much time had passed as Jack and I sat shock still.

I felt sick. This was definitely _not_ going the way I wanted. I didn't want Klaus asking for a story! I'd told him enough, revised versions about his dad!

So why was he asking _Jack_ for one?

I felt like an emotional paraplegic. I feel as though all of my gains and insights are based on control and denial. I'm worried that I'm so profoundly sick as to appear healthy and together.

Jack cleared his throat, "An_d-uh_, what makes you think _I know_ stories about your—_uh_, of that nature?" He asked, not quite able to bring himself to say '_father'_.

Klaus giggled, "Be_cause_, mama said you _knew_ my papa! _You're all friends! Please_ tell me one? How did my papa meet my mama?"

Silence, once again. I didn't dare tear my gaze from Klaus because of the eyes I could feel burning holes into me.

I felt like going crazy...and not in a '_let's paint the kitchen bright red!_' sort of way. More of a_ 'gas oven, toothpaste sandwich, I am God_' sort of way.

I wondered why I was so anxious—until it hit me. I'm not anxious, I'm lonely. And I'm lonely in some horribly deep way, and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be so lonely because it seems catastrophic—like seeing the car just as it hits you.

To my (and likely everybody's) extreme surprise, Jack nodded his head slightly, "...Okay ki_d._..I'll tell you how they, u_h...met_".

Klaus grinned and looked at me as if to say, _"Look mama! He's going to tell me a story about papa! Are you looking?"_

...How we met—bloody hell, talk about memories I'd almost forgotten I had. By this point I had stopped listening to what Jack was saying, Klaus's face started to fade from my vision.

…I was having a flashback.

_I was six years old again, and sitting in the backseat of my parents black Bentley._

_Maybe once, I do believe that my parents loved each other...once. But they had other loves that came first. My British mother met my French father in London in the summer of 1968. She had been a young fashion student who had been discovered by Mary Quant and scored a job in the big-time, trying to make her name as large as her counterparts. He was a rebel, a 'gypsy', a roamer...he travelled from town to town with the wind—he'd been all over Europe on foot, but the wind had not been active in a while and so in London he remained._

_I never doubted their love. I remember my mother moving to the states when I was two for her "opportunities" and the next year I travelled by foot and by boat with my dad where we met again and stayed just outside of Gotham._

_I never liked our new home. Regardless of its country appeal, that's when things started to fall to bits. My father was restless and my mother was annoyed. She wanted fame, he wanted to set off again and I wanted nothing more than for things to go back to the way they were._

_Which brings me back to the present...six year old me was sitting in the backseat of the Bentley, while my father drove us all to the therapist my mother had found._

_His name was Dr. Lynett; he held his practice from home. I was immediately suspicious—it was 1984, why would a doctor need to hold his practice from **home**?_

_"Yes, Adelheid," My mother would have to constantly repeat, "he is an **M.D doctor**, as I've told you a million times, he earned his degree at Yale!"_

_My parents were sitting in the car, furious with each other. Both had cigarettes hanging out the side of their mouths and both had tense postures._

_"I don't see why we have to see a therapist anyway." My papa said._

_"Because we need help, Etienne, I refuse to deal with your anger any more! God help us all the day you finally snap and kill us all!"_

_"I don't think you should speak like that in front of Adelheid." He would say._

_"Adelheid is old enough to understand what's going on here. And since when did you care about her? You care for nothing but yourself and your goddamn wind!" She'd always reply._

_And it would be silent again. My father's face would be red as he'd grip the steering wheel with anger. My mother remained passive._

_My father would then have his input, "You heard about this guy from where?"_

_...My father is from Rouen, France. This makes everything he says sound like it went through a curling iron. Other people sound flat to my ear; their words just hang in the air, as my mother answered him. But when my father said something, the ends would curl._

_My excitement peaked as we made a left turn to the doctor's street._

_"Look at that house," I'd say, pointing out the window. I remembered it well—it was a pristine white victorian home with a slate roof._

_"I bet it's just like that one. I bet it's even nicer!" And I'd picture a silver Mercedes parked sideways in the crushed clamshell driveway, roof down, MD. plates glinting in the sun...framed medical certificates hanging on the walls in perfect alliance with each other. And everything inside would be polished and clean..._

_A doctor's house—I'd dressed up in my best for the occasion—I needed to look nice._

_The street was lined with immaculate homes, each one more stately than the next. Perfectly trimmed hedges, double fire-place chimneys, tall-front doors painted glossy black, porches fronted with latticework. It was a protracted jaw. _

_Gotham money street._

_"This is nice," I remarked. "I'd love to be a doctor."_

_And then up on the right, I saw one house that did not belong. Instead of being white and pristine like all the others, this house was pink and seemed to sag. From a distance, it looked like an abandoned Barbie doll house._

_"That's not it, is it?" I had asked warily._

_My father hit the blinker and slid the car over to the side of the road._

_"That's it." My mother said._

_"It can't be..." Utter disbelief._

_"That's _it_, Adelheid." She'd say. The engine stopped and my parents got out of the car_

_"Wait," I'd say, following them and feeling panicked, "This can't be it."_

_"This is Dr. Lynett's house." She said, finally._

_I shielded my eyes from the sun as I scanned the house. The pink paint was peeling off, exposing veins and patches of bare wood. All the windows lacked shutters and were covered with thick plastic, making it impossible to see inside. And the lawn—at least what was once a lawn—was nothing more than firmly packed earth that had the look of heavy foot traffic...or a relocated garbage tip._

_My mother walked across the dirt to the front porch and my father and I followed. She rang the doorbell, which generated a strange and very loud electric buzz. I pictured wires deep inside the wall crossing, then sparking to make this sound, which was reminiscent of a chainsaw in the distance. _

_A moment later, the door opened and a hunchback appeared. It was a hunchback with grey, static hair._

_"Hello Myra," My mother said. Myra said hello to my parents then stood back and asked us to come in._

_As we walked in, she waved her hand in the air, indicating our welcome. She resembled a candy cane without the red stripes._

_As she turned and went down the narrow, creaky hallway that was next to the stairs to get the doctor, my mother told me, "That's the doctor's wife—" but stopped when she looked at me, "—stop making that face." She whispered._

_The house smelt like wet dog and something else. Fried eggs? And it was such a mess. The runner I was standing on was so threadbare that it appeared to have melted into the wood-floor beneath it. I stepped around my mother and peered into the room on my right. It had tall windows and a large fireplace. But the couch was turned over on it's back. I stepped around to look into the opposite room. It was also a mess, strewn with clothes, newspapers and plastic bags._

_"No doctor lives here." I'd whispered to my mother._

_"Sh!" She whispered back, gripping my arm firmly, "Be_have_!"_

_I'd looked down at my clean polyester-lycra bottoms and saw they had already collected lint. I plucked the strange animal hair off my knee and let it go, watching it float to the floor. And then looking at the floor, I saw more fur. There was fur everywhere, streaking across the carpet, gathered in thick balls in the corners against the wall._

_I'd never seen such squalor. That people lived here was shocking enough; that a _doctor_ lived here was just unthinkable._

_"I'll wait in the car." I said._

_"You will do_ no_ such thing! It'll be hours, and it's rude. You'll stay here and get along with the other children."_

_My father had given me a sad look, as the two of them then left me standing there and went upstairs to see the doctor._

_Amongst the other things I didn't like about my mother—that was high up on the list—she assumed that my father hated me. But the fact was that he was the parent who cared. Who put me into karate class, who took me to school...all of that. I loved spending time with him, especially when the wind would call and we'd travel to other towns. I loved that the most, because my mother hated it—she'd rather go somewhere via plane—she could never understand my papa's wandering ways. But I could, and I loved it._

_However, no matter how hard I tried to imagine that I was somewhere else in the outdoors with my dad, the smell and realisation of where I was and why I was there kept me from anything remotely happy._

_I had sniffled, my eyes filling up with tears. Regardless of everything, I was still 6 years old—and the environment was just disgusting. _

_"I want to go home! I don't want to be here!" I said to myself—my voice echoing through the room._

_"You get used to it after a while." Another voice said_

_Startled, I whirled around to face a boy who looked to be the same age as me._

_Wiping my eyes I asked, "Who are you?" Weary of everyone who was in this place._

_He was a little taller than me, with dark blonde curly hair that hung in his face. His shabby clothes suggested that his family had possibly seen better days. One of his hands was shoved in his pocket, the other was holding a bag of cookies._

_"I'm Jack."_

_Staring at him, I cautiously replied, "I'm Adelheid." And stuck out my hand like I'd seen my papa do._

_He had looked at my outstretched hand for a moment, before slowly grasping it within his own and starting to shake it. He then paused, as if debating something—and instead of his original handshake, he'd brought my hand to his lips and pressed a small kiss to it, then quickly dropped my hand and brought his own to wipe across his lips._

_I'd burst into giggles, "Why'd you do that?" I had asked. _

_He blushed, shoving his hand back into his pocket, "My ma' said that that's what I should do to ladies..." He'd mumbled._

_I giggled again, watching him join in due to his embarrassment. The bag of cookies jiggling a little as he did so._

_I stared at the treats—having not had anything to eat that day, and the rarity of being allowed things like cookies..._

_Jack took notice._

_Holding out the bag, he asked, "Wanna share them?"_

_We'd eventually found a relatively clean spot to sit on and eat. _

___

"My parents want to kill each other." I told him, as though it were something that happened everyday.

_He had perked up at that, "Mine too!" and proceeded to tell me about the hatred he harboured for his father...I remember feeling sad for him, because he'd said it with such pure venom that no 6 year old should have had. _

_"He sounds mean." I'd say._

___

"Mm, I love these cookies!" I said to him, "They're the best! I'm not allowed to have cookies at home—my mum says I'll turn fat!"

_"They're my ma's specially made ones! If you come over, she'll make 'em all the time!" He exclaimed._

_I noticed something strange about his face as he bounced on the floor, causing his hair to move from his eyes—he had two long, deep scars running from the corners of his mouth into a smile._

_I gasped, for not only had I never seen such anything like it...I couldn't work out who would do such a horrific thing!_

_He realised that I was staring and quickly lowered his head again so his hair covered him once more._

_"I hate them." He had mumbled, looking at his lap._

_"What happened?" I remember whispering. Talking loudly at that moment seemed like a sin._

_"I was serious." He replied._

_The statement confused me, so I didn't say anything else._

_"Was it your dad?" I asked. He nodded faintly, playing with the frays of his jacket._

_"Oh...I hate your dad!" I said_

_He perked up again and grinned at me, "I hate him too!"_

_I don't know how it happened, maybe I just don't remember. All I know is that through that one conversation we had formed some sort of bond—through one conversation we'd become best friends._

_ I left the doctor's house that night happy with my new best friend.  
_

_Best friend._

Suddenly the word filled me with a brand of sadness I hadn't felt since childhood. The kind of sadness you feel at the end of summer. When the fireflies are gone, the ponds have dried up and the plants are wilted, weary from being so green. As I looked up, I saw that it was dark outside, and it was quiet.

Though, I realised that the reason as to why and I couldn't help but smile because of it, despite the pang in my chest.

Both Klaus and Jack had fallen asleep. Klaus was curled up into Jack, hugging him, seeking warmth. While Jack had his feet up on the coffee table, one arm lying limp next to him and the other unintentionally strewn across the boy's shoulders. His head was leaning back and both of them had their mouths open, snoring softly.

They couldn't possibly have looked more alike than right now...

I sighed, and a noise startled me. Turning around I saw Jack looking at me. Unblinking. Unreadable. Unnerving. Unwavering.

Standing up, the intensity of his stare just seemed to grow. As did the tension in the room. There was an elephant in there that was being ignored.

I swallowed, my hands started to shake and I broke out in a light sweat. Feeling unhinged under his scrutiny. He suddenly looked at Klaus for a moment, before dragging his gaze back onto me—but he said nothing. He just cleared his throat and nodded once at me, before raising an eyebrow and picking up his coat—leaving via the fire escape.

...I was stunned.

What just happened? I wondered. Staring at the spot he had just vacated.

__

What, indeed.  


* * *

Why not review? My horoscope said a tall dark handsome stranger will leave some kind words with me.


	7. Chapter Seven

_Bonjour mes belles!_

_Je garde ma parole, comme je l'ai dit, si une bonne lecture—et profites-en!_

(Hello my lovelies!

I'm keeping my word, like I said. So happy reading—and enjoy!)

t

* * *

**SEVEN**

The week passed by in a daze. But for Gotham it was a different story—the crime rate had increased 10% thanks to the Joker.

He'd made an impact on the rising criminals, and the Commissioner and his team of men were starting to hit a wall.

A few nights ago it was announced that Rachel Dawes was dead.

It made me realise who I was dealing with. Never mind that I'd "reunited" with Jack—he was still dangerous. And he had just killed one of my only friends.

Who did I have left now? Him and Bruce Wayne? Bruce and I weren't really all that close.

_God..._

I hated this city. I don't even know why I still lived here. Why I came back here in the first place.

I was pacing. I was smoking. My hands were shaking. My eyebrows were furrowed.

_What now? What now? What now?_

I could faintly hear the TV in the background. Stuck on something, I wasn't paying attention to what. I probably should have been—I needed the distraction. Anything to prolong making a decision!

_Maybe I'll make lasagne for dinner..._

Oh, who was I kidding? I wasn't going to leave Gotham. No matter how much I hated it, no matter how weird it was...what with our local bat and clown out on the loose.

I wasn't going to leave Gotham, but I was going to go for a drive...to somewhere I hadn't been in years.

The old red house in the woods.

The place I once lived. It was almost like an heirloom home. It's the place I lived in after I came to Gotham with my father. Then, it was the place I lived with Jack before he left—it almost looked haunted, sitting there all alone. Even though I owned the place, as I got out of the car and slowly made my way towards it, I felt as though I was trespassing; as though I was stepping on sacred territory. The leaves and tall grass crunched under my feet as I walked towards it. It still looked like it used to, but like a neglected version of its former self. There was chipped paint, splintered wood...it looked ominous.

The door creaked as I opened it, surprised to find it unlocked. Also surprised to find that the inside was relatively clean. It looked like nothing had changed at all...in fact, it looked like someone was living in it.

As though my thoughts were jinxed, I barely had any time to react as a small creak came from my left, and then blinding hot pain seared through my arm.

I'm not sure if I gasped or screamed—perhaps I did both. All I know was that there was a switchblade embedded in my upper arm.

I fell, and whimpered.

Heavy footsteps came striding towards me, and I couldn't stop sobbing. I shouldn't have come back here—I should've known that some dangerous person would take advantage of the opportunity to find refuge in an abandoned home.

But when I felt the hand on my cheek, I hesitantly opened my eyes and looked at my attacker.

_The bastard!_

I should have known.

I opened my mouth to yell at him, but he'd pulled off his glove and shoved it between my teeth before I could. Not even looking at me he said, "Bite it," and with that proceeded to mercilessly pull the knife out of my arm.

I bit down on the glove and squeezed my eyes shut, my scream of pain muffled. With that done, he ripped his glove out of my mouth and hauled me up, dragging me upstairs to the bathroom where he sat me down and rummaged around for the first-aid kit.

He was being impassive, and I was outraged. But I said nothing…I refused to speak to him.

While we were silent, him tending to my wound—me glaring at him.

He glanced up at me briefly and smirked as he saw the filthy look I was giving him, and then he chuckled at my wince as he roughly stitched me up.

_Give him nothing_. I told myself, and looked out the window—deciding to play his game.

If he was going to be an impassive jerk, then so was I.

He finished stitching me up and sat back, studying me. He seemed pensive for a moment but it quickly passed as his stupid grin appeared.

"_Adelheid, Adelheid, Adelheid_…little _Hei_di!" He cackled, slapping the arm he'd just stitched up—probably to see me hiss in pain again.

He gave me a mock look of concern, "_Oh_, does that _huuuurt_, does it?" He tsked, leaning forwards and slapping my thighs.

"You should know that pretty little girls shouldn't go wandering the woods, _alone_." He paused, tapping knife—that was covered in _my_ blood—onto his cheek in mock thought.

"Ya' know, this reminds me of a little _fairy-tale_…doesn't it remind you, Adel-_Heidi?_ Doesn't it…don't you feel a bit like Little Red Riding Hood? Does it scare you to know that you've found the _big_, _Bad, WOLF!_" His voice had lowered considerably, to the one we all knew—the one he used when he was incredibly angry.

I gave him nothing, no answer, no reaction. I only stared out the window and wondered when it all went wrong. The only emotion I felt right now was an incredible sadness. It was like I'd lost.

And in a way, I did lose.

I'd lost Jack, to the Joker.

A lot of people will think and will say that it's not the same. No, it's not…it's worse. Imagine for a moment, not losing the one person you ever loved to death, divorce, or anything similar. But instead losing them to their alter-ego. Imagine losing them, seemingly, to themselves. Imagine how you'd feel when all of a sudden they're attacking you and the city for some silly matter of opinion.

The Joker was always a part of Jack. But that's all he was meant to be—a _part_ of him—the rough, controlling lover. That was fine. He was never supposed to become his own person!

Hating the feel of his gaze, I got up and walked out of the bathroom…my destination was obvious at this moment.

I opened the door to the bedroom—shocked at what I saw. The place looked like a bomb had hit it!

I was guessing that Jack had thrown a tantrum over something—likely Batman.

I spied a picture frame lying face-down on the side-table…I knew exactly what it was. I picked it up, running a hand over it to clear the dust it had collected—I stared, hands shaking, at my wedding photograph.

I had no more room for emotion—therefore I couldn't cry. I couldn't yell. I couldn't throw it at the wall.

I could only stare.

I felt him come up behind me and look at it as well. It was though my senses had rapidly increased. I was aware of everything. I felt him tense up, but paid him no notice.

_It's his fault all this happened anyway. _

I looked at my wedding ring, staring at it as though it was one of the rats that started the plague.

This was exactly what I had always hoped to avoid. I don't understand what happened—we were the closest people in the world, as far as I knew. We shared an amazing love for one another, at least that's what I thought. But you can't fake something like that. So, I couldn't comprehend anything…

Maybe it's true that we become our parents…

I turned around to look at him. I noticed that he was touching a chain around his neck, or, more specifically, the thing that was on the chain. He was twisting it around and glancing at the photo with a tilted head and a strange expression on his face.

I squinted to get a better look at the round white-gold ring.

_Ring? He still had it? _

Instead of looking at him in a new light—instead of feeling elated and comforted that he was still Jack on some level…I was only more confused. I was way out of my comfort zone, and way out of my depth and league with this man…men—whatever he was.

My frustration was building up towards the unbearable point. The past few weeks, the last few years…everything. It was taking its toll on me. Because everything included _him_. Because _he_ was the cause of my distress lately.

He cleared his throat, "So-uh, what's the kid's name again?" He asked, lowly.

"…Klaus Jack Napier" I answered, noticing his arm twitch and his body tense. But that was all he did that indicated he'd even heard me.

He suddenly turned on me, glaring, "_Why?_" He demanded, causing my eyebrows to furrow.

"What do you mean _why_? Why _not_? I wanted my son to have something of his father's…even if it was just a name!" I said.

He muttered something, but I couldn't understand…I don't think I even wanted to know.

Is everything in life an awkward step to something bigger or is that just the way I seem to tell stories?

As I stared at Jack, or The Joker—I wondered what hope we had…not just me, not just him. But everyone. Were we all doomed to the same dark fate?

I wasn't supposed to say it out loud, but I did.

"What happened to you?" I blurted out, "Why did you leave?"

…There, now it was out in the open.

My arm was really starting to hurt, and looking down at the bandaged wound I saw it was already drenched in blood, even though the stitches were still on.

As I expected, I didn't get an answer. He didn't answer my questions anymore.

I held my arm and warily surveyed my surroundings properly. The room was exactly as I left it, minus Jack's tantrum of course.

But what caught my eye was the closet. Instead of clothes it was filled with weapons.

Everything imaginable—guns, knives, bombs, poisons…things I'd never seen before, and some that looked foreign and incredibly illegal.

I looked about the room again, ready to speak—but he was gone.

_Again_...

And, sitting on the unmade bed, holding my arm—for the first time since I saw him again…I cried.

* * *

Leave some love and…_critique_?


	8. Chapter Eight

Hola!

And here's another one—I keep trying to fix the format but this site doesn't like double spaces! Damnit!

Anyway, aside from a few paragraph issues, my thoughts also go out to my friends in Japan! Keep safe!

Getting there!

_t_

_

* * *

_

**EIGHT**

_I hate this restaurant._

It was a thought that kept popping up in my head.

I really didn't like it, not only because it was prestigious in itself, but because it happened to be filled with the most prestigious bunch of insecure arse-kissing people I'd ever seen.

But, since I was catching up with Bruce and that was the way he rolled—I wasn't going to complain…out loud, at least.

I knew why we were catching up. Bruce Wayne and I may have never been the closest of friends—but we were good friends of Rachel, well…I never held a flame for her but you get my point—and I knew that he'd arranged this to make sure I wasn't going to be next, for some insane reason.

"How have you been?" He asked me, quietly.

Honestly? I was a wreck. Naturally. Who wouldn't be if they'd recently found out that their husband was a murderous clown.

I shrugged and took a sip of the wine, "I've been better" I answered, which was the truth.

I was growing weary of being so depressed. I was growing even more weary of myself.

"What happened to your arm?" I heard Bruce ask.

Well. There's a new ice-breaker.

I had almost forgotten about that damn gash I scored. Or not so much a gash as it was a scar.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead, a gesture of embarrassment—or a lie—if I can recall correctly from my studies on human behaviour.

Quickly spinning a lie, I said, "Oh, just me being clumsy again…I had a bit of a fall down the stairs. Landed on Klaus's pencils and the like."

Bruce looked both amused and concerned. Yet his slight chuckle suggested he was more so amused.

Yeah, let's see you laugh if you knew the truth, you barmy twat.

And yet, what was the truth anyway?

_'Right well, you see sir…my husband who left me 5 years ago to become a hardcore anarchist decided to play darts on my arm with a switchblade, explicably since you all know him as the clown, yeah? Joker. 'innit what he's called? Right so, that would be completely and totally understandable since it's his job now and so playing 'pin the knife' on me is part of our routinely anomalous day-to-day life, when I see him—that is. Which I'm sure would be a perfectly acceptable reason to lock us up in Arkham which I can't actually allow you to do, as you're now dealing with a woman in hysterics which really wouldn't be the case if I wasn't so utterly, helplessly bloody sexually frustrated!'_

So we can see that go right down the toilet. Bruce's eyes would undoubtedly fall out of their sockets…he'd then most likely inform the police—him or the rest of the restaurant who also would have heard me. And then both Batman and the Commissioner would have a hernia…_"She's married to the Joker? That's no willing bit of matrimony—there's been some bit of coercion here. Lock her up, she ain't sane, that one…The Joker has added brainwashing women to his repertoire, when we catch him, off with his bollocks!"_

Though, I was trite to admit—if there was going to be any 'bollock-chopping' where Jack was concerned. It was going to be me cutting them off—I owned them, after all.

Looking at the time I sighed, "Bruce, I really should get going" I said.

He nodded, if not somewhat regretfully.

I paused, looking at his solemn face…maybe we weren't the best of friends, and perhaps we never would be, but he was grieving for someone he loved, and I could very much understand how he felt.

Biting my lip, I hesitated…yet walked over to him anyway and pulled him into a tight hug. I was never really one for too much physical affection, but he needed me right now.

And as I'd thought, he hugged me back and remained glued to me for a few minutes. I was sure we were earning a few stares from the other gossips in the restaurant.

I pulled back and made him look me in the eye, "Bruce," I began, "It's going to be okay—you'll get through this. You need to know that."

"It's just not fair…it wasn't supposed to happen…" He rasped, trailing off and averting his gaze.

"Of course it isn't fair. Life isn't fair, life in Gotham is guaranteed unfairness. But there are things that are worse than dying, Bruce. Look at Harvey Dent—he's got the memory of what happened right on his face…he has to suffer. Rachel is at peace. Having to suffer with pain and guilt is by far, much worse than death." I said, shaking him slightly to try and make him understand.

He exhaled slowly and nodded, "…You're right"

I frowned, but said nothing else.

* * *

I had a funny feeling in the bottom of my stomach as I walked home. I was probably an idiot for walking by myself at such a late hour, but I wasn't worried. There's a reason I learnt martial arts y'know.

Nevertheless, the cold feeling of dread continued to boil and I stopped walking for a moment. Usually when I had a strange feeling about something, I was normally right about it—and I didn't like this one at all...

I prayed that I was wrong.

* * *

And yet, woe is me! As I opened my apartment door, the fact that it was unlocked immediately set into panic mode. The place was dark and cold. I hesitantly walked, cautious and alert for anything that shouldn't be there.

"Hello?" I called out, "Josephine?"

I got no response from the babysitter—_(what an awful use of term!)_

No response from Klaus.

Nothing…

I was freaking out.

And as I turned on the light I was so unprepared for what I saw that I screamed, loudly.

Opening my eyes I fearfully peered at the bloody remains of poor Josephine, an innocent young girl who had met her demise on my living room floor.

_Where was Klaus?_

I began to hyperventilate as I walked through the passageway to Klaus's bedroom.

My fear turned to cold anger when I saw the open window and the red writing that covered the walls—

**"HA HA HA HA HA—HOW'S MY PARENTING, DOLL-FACE? HA HA HA HA!"**

I couldn't believe it! Well, actually I could but why the hell would he want to do this?

I didn't think I could cope much longer…was I being punished for something? I don't know—I don't know anything anymore.

In my head, I'd just failed as a mother. I'd just become my own nightmare.

So I did the only thing I could do at that moment…

I broke down and cried.

* * *

_Meanwhile, wind the clock back a bit—_

In his bedroom, surrounded by his favourite toys sat young Klaus, lost in his own childlike world of wonder. Dressed up as a pirate, he lay on the floor making motorcycle sounds as he pushed around a small wooden ship and plastic soldiers.

_"Brrrrrrrrwwwwwwwm—mmmmrrrrrrrrrrm—MAN OVERBOARD!"_ He screamed, throwing the plastic little man to a wall and diving after him with a miniature sword.

Everyone who knew Klaus knew that he didn't like it when his mother went out. He was still attached to his umbilical cord, and she was pulling at it.

He didn't like the babysitter. She never played pirates with him, she just used the phone and the fridge.

It wasn't fair! She was his mama, that meant that she wasn't allowed to go out and leave him all alone with Josephine, the rude wench!

Klaus didn't hear the struggle in the next room. He was too immersed in his imagination.

It wasn't until he heard the low chuckling coming from his doorway that Klaus spun around in surprise.

Upon seeing the Joker, however, he smiled, "It's you again! …Why are you here?"

The Joker raised and eyebrow, glancing around the room, "Thought I'd _uh_, drop by, kid" He replied. Klaus was confused, trying to look around the Joker, but the Joker was blocking his view…he was making sure to block his view.

Why would the Joker deliberately block his view?

Klaus furrowed his brows, "Where's Josephine? Mama told her that nobody is allowed to come in the house."

The Joker grinned, "I _uh_, told _Josep_hine to go home…wouldn't you rather stay with _me, hmm_?"

Klaus stared at him intently. Something wasn't right, "Mama didn't say you were coming" He said, lifting his chin defiantly. If mama didn't say that someone was coming over, then they weren't supposed to be here!

"But she uh, called me, and said that I should come over" Was the reply.

Klaus faltered, not sure what to do.

The Joker, knowing he was winning, grinned and stepped forward, "Yeah kid, she_-uh_, asked if you wanna come with me for a bit…we'd play all kinds of _uh…games_"

Klaus perked up, games? He liked to play games. And if mama told this man that he could stay, then Klaus needed no more encouragement.

"I like games! Do you like pirates?" He asked excitedly.

The Joker's gaze travelled to the window and he smiled in an untrusting way, "Oh, sure kid. Y'know what? Let's play a game right _now_. We can be pirates, and your ma can be the detective."

An eager nod was his reply.

"_Greaaaaaat_…first, we have to write on the wall." He said, plucking up a red marker from the ground.

"Why?" Klaus asked, a little nervous. He wasn't allowed to write on the walls.

"To leave a clue…you gotta leave a clue, kid."

"Oh. But I'm not allowed to write on walls" Klaus replied.

"_No_? But you're a pirate, you don't listen to _rules_! You _uh_, gotta work with me here, kid" The Joker said.

Klaus looked at him, at the wall, and then at the marker in his hand…and shrugged, giggling as he joined in and made scribblings where he could reach. He was breaking a rule!

They both giggled, though for entirely different reasons.

Klaus, because he was breaking a rule, and the Joker because he was breaking _Klaus_.

* * *

I was in shock. As I sat in the police station—no, I hadn't called the cops—apparently someone had heard my scream and did the honours for me.

My hands were shaking as I took a small sip of the hot chocolate someone had given me.

I didn't want to be here, I needed to be out searching for Klaus. I didn't know what Jack was going to do—I could only pray that he wouldn't hurt or even corrupt my boy.

The police couldn't do anything. And they definitely were not getting answers from me. I refused to further endanger both my life and my son's by having the police know the truth.

I sighed as Commissioner Gordon sat down next to me.

"Please, just let me go. I have nothing useful for you, I just need to get out of here." I whispered.

He must have agreed because he knew that nothing would be coming out of my mouth…but I knew he'd keep pestering me, now that I was apparently a 'victim', because my own word that I didn't know anything wasn't good enough.

And I wasn't lying, really. I didn't know anything. I didn't know why Jack took Klaus. I didn't know why Jack became the Joker.

It was just the things I did know that they had no idea that I knew, and I wouldn't have told them even if it killed me.

And there was no escaping that fact now, because now, they knew who I was. In my mind, the fact that they now knew me, felt like I had acquired unwanted fame.

As a kid in the eighties, the most appealing career options presented to me were featured in _Flashdance_ and _Fame_. Pat Benatar was right, love _is_ a battlefield. I now knew this from this new relationship with a supposedly 'mentally ill' murderer. I was assuming on the mentally ill part, of course, as we all know he's a murderer.

Though, I didn't really think that he was insane. Not really. But even still, thanks to that I don't think I'd want to fall into the love pit again. Better, I had thought, to focus on both my career and my child—and what better career than a celebrity?

I'd had it all planned out. I would move to New York and become famous. I hadn't thought of exactly what I would become famous for, I had just hoped it wouldn't be for the slaughter of another person.

Silly me.

But then again, perhaps I didn't have to be famous "_for_" anything. In the seventies there were plenty of people who were known for only being semi-famous, like Charo and Pia Zadora.

And then, in my twenties, I decided that I didn't want to be famous.

I wanted to live in my red home by the woods, with Jack, entirely moved from society. I wanted to have wolves as pets and not pay taxes. And unlike certain people, I never reached the point of sticking bombs in manilla envelopes and mailing them, but I had gotten close.

In the end, I wound up somewhere in the middle.

While not famous on the same level as Gwyneth Paltrow or even Monica Lewinsky, I am more known than I expected to be…even if I had chosen a more Ted Kaczynski life (unless, of course, I had mailed the exploding envelopes).

I wrote my first book and suddenly my face was on the masthead of _Gotham Times._

Of course, writer famous isn't like movie famous. Movies are consumed in public, along with hundreds of other people, and the actor's face is enlarged to the size of a minivan. And watching movies is the only other thing besides sleeping and having sex that we do in the dark…most of the time.

So there is that intimacy. On screen, each breath is magnified, so it feels like it's on our own neck. Then we leave the theatre and talk about the movie, obsess over the stars. We see their pictures on TV and in magazines and online, and as a result of this situation, we would recognise Brad Pitt in a bathing suit before we would recognise our own aunt in one.

It all described Jack.

Jack had become like a movie star in Gotham—albeit a very un-liked one.

Books, on the other hand, are read by individuals in bathtubs, beds, toilets. Always in solitude. And the author's face is only seen if the reader turns to the back of the book and looks at the jacket picture. Or, if a newspaper or a magazine happens to print the author's photo.

I always changed my look after writing a book, because I didn't like being recognised by readers. I didn't want to hear about how I helped them or what happened to them. I didn't want to hear it. It wasn't something you tell to a stranger on the street.

Writing was my outlet. There was no way in hell I would converse with a person, a therapist—and tell them the things that I only reserved for the page.

I suppose, when you think about it, there are not only different tiers of fame, but genres. The "classic" famous person is a movie star, and even in that there are different grades, like eggs. There are grade-B actors, like Susan Anton, has-beens such as Ann Archer or the star of _Flashdance_ herself, Jennifer Beals.

Then, of course, there are top-tier movie stars like Ms. Meryl Streep.

But there are other routes to fame. For example, everyone loves a good serial killer. No matter how much we fear and hate…we give them fame because deep down, we do love to hate them. I suppose that's why it's tough to beat the Joker, known to me as Jack Napier. The Joker cards he's left at crime scenes have sold at auctions for thousands of dollars.

I know, because I've spent many a drunk hour online browsing around on eBay.

Then, I guess there are those who become famous for being in the centre of a scandal. Of course, one instantly thinks of Monica Lewinsky. Monica is now super-famous worldwide. Italians still call her Portly Pepper Pot.

I guess, in a way, we're all famous within ourselves for something.

* * *

I didn't want to go back home, back _there_.

I didn't want to go to Bruce's either, although I had no idea why the thought even appeared—as if I would _actually_ go to Bruce Wayne's manor, _pfft_.

I looked around at the city I was living in.

This dark, dreary, godforsaken place called Gotham. Cars and taxis whizzed by, city lights cast an eerie glow around the streets, tall buildings towered over us, making the place even colder. And to think, that somewhere amongst all this, my son was being held captive by my psychotic jerk of a husband.

_Wait_.

I paused.

I knew exactly where "_somewhere amongst this_" was.

My eyes widening in realisation, I sprinted back home to my car, and sped to the place where I knew Klaus was.

* * *

_"I'm reviewing—the situation" _


	9. Chapter Nine

Hello, hello!

And here's another edit—or I should say re-re-edit as I've had to do it twice and then get logged out, drat!

Anyway, enjoy!

_t_

* * *

**NINE**

A very nervous anxiety bubbled within me as I drove to the red house.

The one I used to hate.

The very same one I once lived in. The very one which, not even a week ago, I'd discovered had become Jack's new place of refuge.

I wondered if he was doing this deliberately…if I was being punished for something. A stupid thought, really. _I'm_ the one who should be punishing _him_, not the other way around…it's not as if I've done anything to him.

Or maybe I have…I seem to drive everyone in my life towards madness, even myself. The last time I spoke with my father, he was killed not long after. I drove my mother towards the insanity in which she then killed my father…I drove my bother to run away. I drove teachers and other people mad…and now, it seemed, I had driven Jack towards the Joker.

_Oh my god…_

Had I unconsciously created this man? Had I unwittingly, single-handedly created the clown that Gotham fears and hates?

I felt like Dr. Frankenstein…I'd created some sort of monster and now I was being punished for it.

It was another realisation that hit me hard. Whether it was true or not didn't matter at this point.

Did this mean that I was going to drive Klaus mad too? Because at the rate things were already going, I was doing a good job.

I quickly slammed on the brakes, thankful that I was in empty roads—and berated myself for thinking such a horrible thing.

I was _not_ a bad mother. I knew what a bad mother was…I'd had one, and I was _nothing_ like her.

It briefly crossed my mind the amusing thought at how Jack and I really were two of a kind. I was plagued by a bad mother, and he from a bad father. I think that somewhere, deep down inside, we both feared that we would become them.

What the hell was I thinking? I didn't drive anyone to madness. You _can't_ drive someone to madness as madness is something that creeps up on you and it's your own choice whether to succumb to it or not.

I resumed driving—all the while feeling like there was an acid hole burning its way through my gut.

I find it incredible at what a person can achieve without doing much at all.

I got a career out of writing down my embarrassing past for everyone to read. I got an amazing child from having unprotected sex—although, admittedly, having a child does actually require effort, I've discovered.

I thought back to my pregnant days…I was terrified. I didn't want to go through it alone. I'd heard all these stories from women who'd had kids, telling me all about the pains of labour, caesarians—I'd seen all those videos.

It's just odd. I like to be alone, and yet I hate _being_ alone...though, in very different contexts.

I like to be alone in the sense of solitude—just me, or Klaus and me…just us.

What I don't like is actual loneliness, actually _being_ alone. Knowing that there is no one.

* * *

By the time I had reached the old red house, I was visibly shaking, the queasiness in my stomach had become a natural disaster.

I hesitantly opened the door, not really knowing what was going to happen…so of course it was quite the surprise when I saw Jack sprawled out on the couch, throwing knives at the wall like they were darts.

I knew that he knew that I was there, standing in angry shock, watching him.

"So, it didn't take you _quite_ as long as I, _uh_, thoug_ht_" He finally said, not even turning to look at me.

"What are you talking about?" I snapped, triggering his hyena laugh.

He finally looked at me, "_Hmm_, I'm talking about _you, doll._ You figured it out, _uh_, sooner than I had _gues_sed."

"It wasn't that hard to figure out," I replied, "where's my son?"

He raised a brow, and I fought the urge to slap him, "Straight to it, hmm?" He smirked at me.

Pursing my lips in a pathetic attempt to reign in my anger, I repeated myself, "Where is Klaus?"

He sighed, rolling his eyes and pointing to the staircase, "Upstairs, uh, happy now?" He asked, grinning at me.

I gaped at him, and lost it…

"Did you just say, _'Am I happy now?_' No! _No_, I'm not bloody happy now! I'm furious! _You kidnapped my son! Why?_ Why in the hell would you do that? Have you not caused me enough grief? _Shit_, _Jack_, do you _want_ me to have a nervous breakdown?" I yelled. I was in hysterics, I couldn't help it. Everything had suddenly come crashing down on me…everything I had felt and had pushed aside in my fear and desperation. He was going to kill me and he didn't even need a knife to do it!

I grabbed fistfuls of my hair and tugged at it, yelling out in frustration. To any other person it would have looked comical—but I had snapped and there was nothing funny about this at all. I was releasing some of my anger and I wasn't about to calm down anytime soon, that much was obvious from my static hair, flared nostrils and wide, wild-eyed look.

I seemed to be amusing Jack though, and I turned on him, "Do you think this is funny? Do you think this is a bloody comedy show, do you? _Look_ at you! You think you're some sort of bloody _god_! Lying there on the couch with your _stupid_, ridiculous face-paint, and your _stupid_ knives and your_ stupid goddamn smirk_! What is _wrong_ with you? _Jack, what?_ Just because you're happily living your anarchic life! Why are you doing this to me? I'm living day-to-day trying to forget you a little more, but I can't because at the same time I'm trying to raise _my constant reminder of you_! You can't just come and go in and even out of our lives whenever you_ feel like it_! I'm trying to make damn bloody well sure that _my son_ doesn't have the same shitty childhood that we did, and I was doing fine! You may be causing chaos and ruining everyone's lives in all of Gotham, you may have ruined mine as well! But I _won't_ let you ruin that boy's! _You have no right to!_"

He had been sitting up, staring at me the whole time, curiously. I don't know if my hysteria-induced speech had any sort of impact on him, if he ever even listened to it...as he hadn't spoken.

Fed up with his very presence, I decided to go upstairs but I hadn't even made it to the staircase when he decided to speak,

"Where do you _uh_, think _you're_ going?"

I turned and glared at him, "I'm going to go and get _my son_, and then I'm going to leave!" My voice had lowered considerably after my outburst.

His tongue darted out across his lips, "Y'know, he is _uh, my _son too" He drawled out, in a matter-of-fact way.

_That_ comment got me going once again—my entire body was still shaking from my previous energy burst of anger and nerves. I whirled right around and stalked up to him,

"_Really_?" I asked, as I walked towards him, "I don't really think that's true. As I don't really recall you ever being there...actually, not even before _I_ knew that I was pregnant. That's weird, as you obviously stopped caring for me at one point, so I don't see why you'd care about Klaus either. He is _not_ your son in any way but biologically! I don't remember you being there to read to him or help him learn to walk, or comfort him when he's been sad and take care of his cuts and bruises...or do anything! What _have_ you done? You've _threatened_ him _and_ me, you've _kidnapped_ him and you've _lied_ to him. _Yes Jack_, you really _are_ fatherly material aren't you? Maybe I should thank your _own_ father for that, now that I know how _you're more like him than I thought_!" I yelled, knowing that I had hit _way_ below the belt, and I felt disgusted with myself as soon as the words left my mouth. But at this point, I had wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel guilty...if he could feel such a thing anymore, if he ever did.

It had the effect I wanted. Jack's eyes had flashed and darkened dangerously. He stood and had me pinned to the wall within seconds, his hand was wrapped around my throat.

_"I am not like him!"_ He snarled at me.

I hid my fear, ignoring the voice in my head that told me that I had gone too far. I blocked out the fact that I was slowly losing my air supply...no, I kept going.

_"You know you are!_ You never used to be, but you are now! _Look_ at you, you've killed so many people in cold blood, without reason—for so much as looking at you! You've _lied_ to and _kidnapped_ your _own son_—you're trying to kill _me_. I bet your father would be proud of what he's done to you. I bet that, after the initial shock wore off, that he was amused when you killed him! Christ, I bet your own _mother_ has been doing laps in her grave all these years!" I said. I was choking.

I've never seen him look so furious before. His eyes had blackened to such a point that I felt as if I was looking into a dead man's eyes. His hand had tightened its grip and I was finding it very difficult to breath. I feared for my life...I regretted what I had just said, I didn't _really_ mean it but he deserved to he hit like that.

My hands clawed at his own as I tried to lessen the pressure that seemed to continue closing in on me. I felt like everything was going in slow motion when really it was passing in a matter of seconds. Little spots started to appear within my vision...and the next thing I knew was blackness.

* * *

When I came to, gasping for air, I noticed three things.

The first, was that I was on the couch and that there was a something thick on top of me...a purple coat of some sort (my mind hadn't fully clicked yet).

The second thing, and perhaps the most obvious thing was that my neck was aching. I touched it gingerly and winced when even then, the slightest contact hurt.

The third thing, and I really only noticed once I carefully turned myself around, was that Jack (or was he in Joker mood, now?) was still standing in the same spot, facing the wall, leaving me with only his entire profile in view.

That's when my memory kicked in and everything that just took place came flooding back to me.

Feeling nervous, I sat up and spoke, my voice raspy from near strangulation, "Jack, I-I'm sorry. I didn't actually mean what I said. I just wanted to make you angry...you're not like him at all." I spoke, quietly, ignoring the part of me that whispered, _yes, he is. _

He said nothing, just glanced at me for a small moment. I could see him running his tongue across the inside of his scars.

Finally, he spoke, but his voice was low and quiet.

"Y'know, there is a reason that I do what I do. To prove that we're all like that. To prove that deep down, we _are_ like that, among other _uh, things_. But, y'know, you've proved to me that even _you're_ like that."

I looked at him. I didn't think it was possible. But I had really pissed him off.

I suddenly felt remorseful. What had happened? We were arguing and almost killing the other (him probably more so than myself). I was in a nightmare, we were living like our own parents had. And we had _vowed_ to never become like that!

I suppose that just goes to show that things never turn out like you expect them to...in this case we had descended into the life that we swore we'd never have.

I sat there, with my neck surely developing a lovely bruise and stared at the ground, tracing little shapes on the material of Jack's coat.

I went to look up at him and say something, to break the solemn silence, but he was gone.

* * *

With him having gone off to brood somewhere, I was left to my own devices.

I sighed, leaning back on the couch and touching my neck again...feeling sorry for myself.

A noise from the staircase caught my attention, and for a moment I tensed, expecting it to be Jack—or The Joker, as he obviously preferred to be. But as I looked up I saw Klaus bounding down the stairs instead. _Thank god_. At least he hadn't been hurt.

As he ran down he caught sight of me, "Mama! You found us! You're a good detec'tve!" He yelled out, running into my arms.

I hugged him to me. It may have sounded silly, as it had only been 10 hours that he had been missing. But when The Joker is involved, I suppose you can't take any chances.

"_Mhm_, I sure am, love. But you're my clever little pirate" I murmured into his hair, kissing the top of his head.

"That was fun, ma! Can Mr. J be my new babysitter? _Please_?" He asked

I've always found it interesting how kids will say anything that comes to their heads, at any given time. Not realising that they have the power to create a tense awkward situation out of anything within the room.

Obviously, that's what had just happened.

I wasn't cut out for so much drama, it wasn't my thing—I find it difficult to deal with those sorts of situations. I always tend to freak out, get a rash, get a spontaneous illness...mainly I get a bad case of that obsessive-compulsiveness, like a lot of folk do. Dramatic situations just don't sit well with me. I've always thought they were best stayed in the movies. Let the actors deal with them.

Right now, I was really feeling the tense situation that I was in. My eyes had started to dart around the room, paranoid that Jack was listening in somewhere.

No, drama just did not work well with me. I was a calm person. I was a restless wanderer. I was more of a hippie than anything. I longed to be outside, writing my nonsensical crap.

Maybe that's why I didn't really answer Klaus. Because I hated dramatics.

When I was ten years old, I realised that I'd been kidnapped as a toddler. Of course, I would have had to be a fairly dim child to miss the clues. Both my parents had a fondness for canned beans and I did not. Both of them _and_ my older brother had dead straight brown hair, whereas I had a wild mane of wavy blonde.

I don't know...I guess it's just a tough time, to be a kid. It's like I always said, _"You spend nine months trying to get out of the womb, and the rest of your life trying to get back in."_

To be honest though, I never really thought that I'd have kids. I like kids, I always did...but despite what people have said, I never thought I'd be a good mother. I spent an entire pregnancy terrified about what sort of parent I would make. First, because I am startlingly self-centered. I require hours alone each day to write about myself. It consumed my thoughts with the image of a playstation in every room, _"Leave mummy alone and go make it to level four. And mummy will give you 10 bucks if you put it on mute"_.

Another problem is that I was raised without any proper parenting myself. So I really had no wisdom to impart. If a bully so much as touched them at school, my kid would be armed with a stun gun the next day.

* * *

It was late afternoon.

Klaus was up-stairs, left to his own devices. Jack had stalked off somewhere. And me...I was in the kitchen, looking for anything in which I could create a meal out of.

I liked that. Cooking, that is. It was something apart from writing or having sex in which I felt a true peace from. I was whistling a stray tune as I managed to throw something together so we didn't all starve, when I turned and saw Jack sitting on the table, staring at me once again.

I was beginning to get annoyed with his blatant staring at me all the time, yet I said nothing because I was in no mood for another argument.

It was as I served the three plates that he spoke up,

"I think you should leave." He said.

I glanced up at him and nodded, "Yes, I was going to. Right after this."

I don't think he was expecting me to agree so quickly, but he nodded anyway, seemingly pleased.

"...I'm going to leave Gotham." I added on, cautiously looking at him as his face registered into one of rare surprise.

"_Why_?" He asked, his gaze burning into me.

"I have to. I'm an idiot for having stayed here as long as I have anyway. This place is not the kind of environment that I want to raise Klaus in, nor is it one I need to be in. I have to leave." I said, it was true enough.

His eyes narrowed, "What about here?"

I looked at him incredulously, "Here? What about here? It won't work. I can't stay here, we can't seem to be around each other without an argument of some sort—" I paused for a moment, touching my neck. His eyes followed the movement, "—you of all people should know that we'll never be a happy family Jack." I said

He rolled his eyes, sighing as he craned his head, causing his neck to crack from tension.

"That's uh, not what I said, now is it, _hm_? What I'm saying is why _uh_,_ leave Gotham_ when you know that I can find you and..._break_ you as easily as I've broken the city."

He was right, I supposed. It must have seemed cowardly, to want to run. But that's exactly what I was being. If I ran he would find me out of spite and ruin me.

There is a type of schizotypal personality disorder called Magical Thinking which attributes to one's own actions something that had nothing to do with him or her and this assuming that one has a greater influence over events than is actually the case.

I used to have a friend called Jane who was the type of person who will cross the street at a crosswalk, keeping her eyes on the _WALK_ light. She thinks, _'if I make it to the other side before it starts flashing DON'T WALK, I'll have a good day'_. Conversely, she believes that if the light changes while she's still crossing, something "vague but definitely bad" may occur.

This is the adult version of the superstitious game children play, "Step on a crack and break your mother's back" is a saying that Jesus himself probably heard on the playground. And with each generation, kids can be seen walking together, automatically stepping over cracks to spare their mothers from a life spent in a wheelchair.

I, on the other hand, can recall stomping on the sidewalk cracks, pretending the line dividing the pavement from the sidewalk itself was my crazy mother's spine. Whether because of this or for reasons unrelated, she's now in a wheelchair, partially paralysed.

Technically, both are examples of something psychologists call "magical thinking". Which is the belief that one exerts more influence over events than one actually has.

I have never been one of these people who believes that some micron of the universe will shift if I concentrate hard enough or make it to the other side of the street before the lights change. Rather, I believe I control the world with my mind. However, I don't believe I control the world with my mind on my front and foremost thoughts, but rather the things I'm really thinking that I don't want to think. The unwanted thoughts at the back of my head.

So if I ran, my frontal thoughts didn't want Jack to come after me, and yet, I knew that in the back of my mind, those rebellious thoughts really did want him to come after me. Maybe it was an attention thing.

Either way, I was stuck in a lose-lose situation, so my only option was to stay.

I didn't even need to say anything...

He knew he'd won.

* * *

_Why don't you leave a bit of a review, or I'll send in the clowns._


	10. Chapter Ten

Hello my delectable readers!

I just want to shout out a big fat thank you to all the alerts and reviews and just you readers in general, because I feel happy when I read your responses. :)

We're almost there with the re-edits and I swear I shall be feeding you brand new unread chapters!

This one is still more of a filler—I couldn't get it right when I first wrote it, and nothing has changed, it seems...

Love you all,

_t_

* * *

**TEN**

I hate the fact that there is so much influential undirected anger towards everything and everyone in the world. People are filled to the brim with so much hate and anger and antipathy that they forget what it's for and it only fuels to that anger.

Even myself, listen to me...I speak so much about all the things that I hate. Yes, I suppose it's easier to release those feelings when you tap into your thoughts and know what it is that pisses you off. I guess hate is an easier emotion to feel and express than love is.

People don't seem to like anything, if we like something it's because we are drawn to its or their flaws.

I can never seem to make my mind up about the kind of people I like...if there is a "_kind_" of person—well, there isn't, really—it's the prejudices of human nature that have created these irrevocably if otherwise degrading genres we find ourselves being thrust into at every turn of our lives. I suppose though that there are two kinds of people—there are _magicky_ types, and there are _sciencey_ types. Maybe there are three, for those who find themselves either torn between either side or really just don't give a shit like me, or not so much like me, as I tend to favour science too.

I don't care if a person has magical theories or unexplained questions of life, or those with scientific theories. At the end of the day, whatever a person may think...not very much has changed. What really bothers me though, are people who are so adamant about things that are total bullshit. For example, a person who is convinced that the body is a mystery, or things like "the nature of the human soul".

In fact, people who go on about "natural remedies" or "homeopathic solvents" really bug me. When I was pregnant and almost due to go into labour, the only thing on my mind was "Give me those damn drugs!"

Herbs are used in medicine. There is no such thing as natural medical alternatives. Because by definition, alternative medicine has either not been proved to work, or proved, not to work. You know what they call 'alternative medicine' that's been proved to work? Medicine! What's the most commonly used 'natural remedy'? It's something that comes from the bark of a willow tree—it's a painkiller with virtually no side-effects and it has a weird name, better known as "_Aspirin_"!

* * *

One week.

It had been a week since I officially decided to suck it up and stay at the old red house. And the only way that I could think to describe what I was feeling was, well...weird was the only logical way to describe it. I had been here for a week, living in the home I spent a deal of my childhood and marital life in...and here I was again, with my...well, my family, in the very same.

The thing was, in my head, I'd been _stuck_ here for a week. Trapped. I had not left for anything and it was starting to wear me down.

I can't believe I was saying this, but I was bored.

I can't believe that I was bored. I was never bored. I've never been burned in my life. I never actually understood people who get bored. What's there to be bored about, I wonder? I suppose that's the problem with people—we're all so bored. We've had nature explained to us and we're bored with it. We've had the living body explained to us and we're bored with it. We've had the universe explained to us and we're bored with it, so now all we want is cheap thrills and, like, plenty of them...and it doesn't matter how vacuous or tawdry they are, as long as it's new. As long as it's new and as long as it flashes and fucking bleeps in forty bloody different colours.

Throughout my life I've heard different names for different things...sometimes multiple names for one thing—but my favourite is most definitely the French term for orgasm, "La petite mort" or, as it translates to English as, "The little death". It's something that from the very moment I learned it, changed my views on death entirely. Many a person have said that death is a terrible, ugly thing...no matter how it happens, it's always the same and that a person reveals their true selves in that time.

I'm also a true believer of this theory, but ever since I gained that knowledge...I didn't believe it quite as much as I did. I want the French to be right, I want death to be like a big French orgasm—although meeting Saint Peter would be a little embarrassing, all smothered in grog and shrouded in post-orgasmic guilt.

If someone were to psychoanalyse me they would say that my love for solitude would stem from negligent parents...from the constant moving of homes, from not going to school. They would say that I love solitude because I lack social skills—though this is partially true. A stranger would say that I love solitude because of repressed memories that has led to agoraphobia—perhaps this is also partially true, who's to say? But here is why I like to be alone, because being alone is the only time I'm allowed to think and live in my own fantasy world without social standards and 'normality' to chide me.

People have a talent for sending out orders. They thrive on telling others what to do. I hate being told what to do...if I want to act a certain way on a certain day, then by all means I'm going to fucking do it. If I have a reason to be sullen and depressed, then that is how I'm going to be—don't tell me to smile, don't tell me, _"It's a beautiful day, smile—I'm sure you have a reason to"_. Are people really so naive that they can be fooled by nothing more than a smile? As if a smile really brightens up a day, no matter how fake it may be. Have you ever wondered why people seem to have a strange obsession with shoes? I'll tell you why, it's because you can tell a lot about a person just by the shoes they're wearing. People love shoes because although many are oblivious to it, they are drawn towards it because shoes tell the truth. A smile can lie, eyes can mislead, but shoes,_ shoes tell the truth_.

Some people think that if you posture your body in a certain way, your brain will follow. Or maybe the people watching you won't be able to see the real doubting, questioning, fearful you. And they say doing something you're told to and don't question or understand takes faith, but it seems more like fear to me. What if I were to slip away to the beyond and sent hurtling below because I didn't believe. I would be happy that I enjoyed life while I knew it. What's the point in living if it's just the line for the ride?

Think of your worst moment, the worst pain you've ever felt. That is what life is. To live through life knowing that this is the truth, that it is to acknowledge your existence. To believe in god is to doubt yourself. If I found out that god didn't exist, without a doubt didn't exist, I would be disappointed by the fact that I couldn't tell him to get fucked.

How cowardly, to have your creation doubt your existence. To not admit yourself as to avoid blame for the pain you create. We are to worship you but not hold you accountable for bad things that you could prevent.

Fuck you for not existing. If I can't blame god for something, then I won't thank him either.

And, to be fair—I hate myself too.

It's not a matter of believing or not believing. It's a matter of the fear of what may happen if we do, or don't believe. I don't even think I make sense half the time. I am a living contradiction. My views and opinions depend on my mood.

* * *

"Did you ever think that it would be like this?" I asked.

Jack gave me a funny look, "Be like..._what_, _exac_tly?"

We were sitting outside on the grass, well...it was originally just me sitting here, watching the starry sky. I think he only joined to humour me.

"Just, _this_...did you ever picture where you'd be in the years to come? That this was how it was going to be?" I asked, curious, because I know _I'd_ spent many hours pondering over what I'd see myself doing ten, fifteen years from then. It wasn't really what I thought, but then—nothing really turns out how we expect them to anyway.

I wasn't expecting him to answer, so I was a little surprised when he did. He took a while before answering me but he answered regardless, "I _uh_, suppose I'd wonder about it _some_times...but I _uh_, just can't picture myself as anything..." I think he may have wanted to say more, but didn't.

We hadn't glanced at each other even once. Both our eyes trained on the moon...full moon, unusually bright tonight.

"Wonder what the Earth looks like from up there..." I mumbled, before continuing on with my original topic, "So, you're telling me that you've never really, fully say down and thought about your future?" I found it hard to believe.

"_Mmhm_, that's _exactly_ what I'm saying. Because there _is_ no future. It's all an excuse for people to make it easier to _uh_, live with themselves. You—_they_, think that they can make the present palatable by projecting into the future, when they're really just living in the past. It's the future that fucks you up, _doll_. It's the maggot in the apple, it's _uh_,_ a bad joke._ See, everyone's pissed off with the present, but there's nothing wrong with the present. The present's fine, the present's perfect, the present's peachy-fucking-creamy. The only thing wrong with the present is that the bastard doesn't _uh_, exist. Because the present is the future, and the future is the past...and it's all the same fucking bag of bones anyway. It's a constant process of coming into being and passing away...coming into being and passing away. The future is now. The present is now. The past is now, we're in it now, and it's gone again...see, we _uh_, were in it then, when I said it—but we're not in it now, we're not in it now, we're not in it now. We're forever being kicked up the arse with the future...I don't care what I'm doing ten years from now, because nothing's uh, going to change, Adelheid."

I sat, contemplating his words. Of course, he was right...but not completely.

"But that's just it, things are going to change, everything changes, is changing. Change has been happening from the very start...it's inevitable. Do you think the amoeba ever dreamed that it would evolve into a frog? Of course it didn't. And when that frog first shimmied out of the water and employed its vocal cords in order to attract a mate, or to retard a predator, do you think that the frog ever imagined that the incipient croak would evolve into all the languages of the world, into all the literature of the world? Of course it bloody didn't! And just as that froggy could never possibly have conceived of Shakespeare, so we can never possibly imagine our destiny from the millions of little changes that happen everyday. So you can say that nothing can change...anyone can, but as far as I can gather, what we're all experiencing is...with all these different manifestations of regression or precognition, or transmigratory astral bloody chatterings...is just the equivalent of that first primeval grunt." I said, finally looking at him.

As if to prove my point, he made some sort of grunt of acknowledgement, his tongue tracing the insides of his scars.

I sighed, content, "Anyway, I suppose it makes no difference now."

"For _uh_, what?" He replied.

I shrugged, "Everything. This—there's no point wondering about things now, y'know. There are other things to worry about. At least, for me there is...I'm providing for two, and making sure I don't fuck it up...what happened has happened now." I told him.

We sat in silence.

"...Jack?" I asked.

No answer.

"Jack," I tried again, in vain.

Sighing in annoyance, I rolled my eyes, "...Joker," I said, my voice monotonous.

He finally looked over at me, "Hmm?" That stupid smirk on his face.

"What—" I began, "What drove you to leave and become The Joker?" I asked, not really knowing why...it wasn't like he just _knew_ why it happened, it was just one of those things that did.

He sighed in annoyance, "I think you know there's no real answer to _uh, that._"

Yeah, I suppose I did. But most of the time I figured I'd ask anyway. I didn't like not having the answers to things. I didn't like puzzles and mysteries. I didn't like anomalies. They bugged me.

I gave up on attempting to hold a conversation with him. It was like trying to draw information out of a brick wall. Even after being married to him for ten years I hardly knew anything about him at all. Jack never wanted to discuss anything...

And so, we sat in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we stared out at the sky above us...doing nothing but keeping each other company.

* * *

_You can review and I won't send in the clown. _


	11. Chapter Eleven

And we made it to the last edit!

Sorry it's taken so long—I've had to put my dog down :( So I dedicate this to my baby, Franky.

New chapters due to come soon, so I'm sure you're excited eh?

How are the edits coming? I hope you like them better—because I do, they needed massive fixing.

Anyway, enjoy!

_t_

* * *

**ELEVEN**

Maybe it was a Patty Hearst thing. Stockholm Syndrome or whatever it's called when you're being held against your will but then you become sucked in and fall in love. Or, if not exactly love, you fall into something you can't back out of.

_"I can't shoot a gun"_ becomes, "_Hey, this hardly has any kick-back!_"

Maybe this explains why it didn't horrify me when my mother asked me to sign the adoption papers, otherwise putting me into the custody of Dr. Freud and his unnatural family.

The first sign that things were, in fact, starting to turn around came in the form of a frozen turkey. Doctor Freud's daughter won it from a radio station by being the first caller to correctly identify a Pat Boone song.

It didn't fit in the freezer, so she had placed it in the bathtub to thaw. But there were only two bathrooms in the house and she had placed the turkey in the downstairs bathroom—the one with the shower. So instead of removing the poultry to take a shower, we all just showered with it at our feet.

Dr. Freud had a tendency to go through some very...odd phases. And when you lived in that freakshow house it was just something you had to get used to.

I would sit with Jack, upstairs on the rickety widows walk, smoking and avoiding _them_. Anything to distract...

"If _he_ can be a doctor," I would say, "_I_ should be able to get into design school."

My fixation on design school intensified during times of stress. I also wrote in my journal more. Writing was the only thing that made me feel content. I could escape into the page, into the words, into the spaces between the words. Even if all I was doing was practicing signing my autograph.

"Why don't you be a writer?" Jack had suggested one afternoon. "I bet you'd be a funny writer."

He had a habit of breaking into my journals and reading them...I had stopped trying to hide them—from him, at least.

But still, my journals were not funny. They were tragic. "I don't want to be a writer," I said, automatically, "Look at my mother."

After her divorce and bankruptcy from losing her fashion job, in her state of mind, and her quest for fame she moved into writing in the hopes of becoming the next Shakespeare or editor of Vogue.

Jack had laughed, "But not all writers are crazy like your mother."

"Yeah, but if I inherited the gene to write, I'm sure I got her crazy genes, too." I would reply, shuddering at the thought.

"Hm, well, I just don't think that you're going to be happy...drawing shoes." He'd say, the smirk that constantly frequented his face was today used with reason.

Nonetheless, that still infuriated me. I wasn't going to _draw shoes_. I was going to own a _design empire_.

"You don't understand the plan," I said, "You don't listen."

Jack had screwed up his face in disgust, "Plans _shmans_. Those are completely pointless, nobody sticks to them. If you've got your life all planned out, then you're going to get one hell of a surprise at the way it _will_ turn out...anyway, I still think you'd hate it. Sitting around all day long, drawing scales and dimensions for people's dirty feet. Yuck."

I had no intention of dimensioning anyone's feet, just approving final products from behind a glass desk. A design empire was my only way out. I loved the fashion week commercials the promised, _"If you don't feel good, we don't feel good."_

That expressed, perfectly, my refined ability to put others first...

* * *

Sometimes I think I should really take my own advice.

I always say how no person should be surprised at unexpected turns of events that may occur throughout their life. Yet I constantly find myself being surprised at every little turn. It doesn't do any good to sit and think about what could've been, what ifs and whys...

_Why, why, why?_ How can such a meaningless word be so...meaningful? It may very well be the most used word in the entire world. We're constantly asking questions, asking _why_...always needing to know the answer to things even if it's been explained to us. People need a reason to live. What their purpose is in life—as though just being alive isn't enough. We take everything for granted, and when the smallest thing goes wrong the questions start again.

So, what then? What was I waiting for? Why was I expecting to find the man I once knew underneath the man he now is?

There is a complexity to life that I often overlook. There is a depth of thinking, there is a richness. I am only skating on the surface.

I was currently sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling away at the blank page of a notebook. Soiling the pure white of the paper with angry black ink. I hadn't spoken to Jack since that night. I hadn't seen him either...

If I were anyone else I'd say that he was avoiding me, but I knew that he wasn't one to avoid anyone, and so therefore I didn't care where he was—no, scratch that, I didn't care what he was _doing_, wherever he was...

I was feeling incredibly angry with myself for allowing him back into my life so fast.

I had just gotten used to the fact that he had left, forced myself to be happy for my child...and the moment I see him again I don't make more of an effort to push him out.

I should have pushed him away. I should have made more of an effort to protect Klaus. I should have run, damn it!

But no, I let it be, and now I'm in too deep. Now it's too late to turn back, to run away. I've brought this all upon myself and have dragged an innocent child into it with me.

I felt sick...

What sort of a mother was I? Ignoring the safety of my own child for some long-buried hopes and girlish dreams?

As if my thoughts had been jinxed, I heard a scream and a cry of pain come from upstairs.

Panicking, I dropped my pen and sprinted up the staircase, running into my old bedroom to find Klaus curled up on the floor with tears pouring from his eyes, clutching his arm to his chest. There was blood everywhere.

Pursing my lips to prevent myself from cursing, I picked him up and took him to the bathroom where the first-aid kit was.

I gently sat him on the counter and took his arm to clean.

"Klaus," I began in a soft voice, to avoid frightening him more, "What happened?"

He was whimpering as he answered and I had to strain to understand his words.

"I-I was explorin' mama, a-and, and I opened the big closet and then the sword fell on me." He managed.

I didn't correct him that the 'sword' I saw on the ground was actually a butcher's knife. There was no need to scare him even more. I was angry enough as it was.

I saw a shadow appear in the doorway and I looked up to see the source of my anger standing there, a blank expression on his face as he took in the scenario.

His eyes went to Klaus's tear-soaked face, then to his injured arm and the stitches that I was currently holding, to my own face—where he found a glower that was only for him.

Upon seeing Jack, Klaus hurriedly wiped his eyes with his free hand and exclaimed, "Mr J! Look what happened!" He yelled, looking back at the large gash on his arm that I was stitching up.

Jack raised an eyebrow and grunted something, looking completely unfazed by it.

I grit my teeth, I had a hell of a lot to say to him!

It was only when I had sat Klaus down on the couch to watch some cartoons, judging by the way he held his arm to him protectively that he was content to stay there a while—and I stormed outside, to where _The Joker_ was, working on some sort of chart...

Beyond mad, I knocked the papers out of his hands and kicked his feet off the table they were resting on. Causing him to fall to the ground from the chair he was leaning back on.

Glowering down at him on the ground, I didn't give him a chance to yell at me.

"Why haven't you killed us yet?" I demanded, "Hm? Why? Why am I here? And why am I still alive? You have absolutely no problems at all killing someone, killing someone for so much as looking at you! So why, damn it? Why. Are. We. Here?"

He opened his mouth, but I was too angry to even want to hear his stupid reasons.

"What do you want from me? I want to know, why you've decided to come back into my life like you think you have the right to! You've turned my home into some goddamn criminal maze! I'm scared to move around in there because I don't know what the hell is going to jump out at me! You've hurt your own son! You bastard! Hiding your face behind some paint like a coward! You're a manipulative bastard and I hate you! I hate you and everything you've put me through! You can't even give me the smallest bit of peace and end my misery. You'd like nothing more than to see me slit my wrists! Isn't that right? Killing me is too easy, you want to manipulate me and sabotage everything I've ever worked for until I'm a broken shell of a person, until I have no choice but to slit my own throat!" I raged, past the point of livid. I was a hurricane of emotions, but I was so angry that one more push would turn me into Lucifer himself.

I was usually so in control of my emotions, so I suppose it's not much of a surprise to know what whenever I lose control I'd turn into a raging lunatic.

I deflated, though, either in shock or confusion, when he casually went on to ask me if I normally felt grief on all of these "sad occasions".

The question struck me as an odd one; personally I'd have been too embarrassed by having to ask anyone a thing like that. Were it not obvious enough?

I spoke in a half-lie, in my confusion and answered that in recent years I'd rather lost the habit of noting my feelings, and hardly knew what to answer.

At the same time, this howling violence freak, habitually loaded with potent intoxicants and a skull full of Beethoven-grade egomania, is studious and thoughtful, courtly and caring, curiously peace-loving in his moments, and unwaveringly generous.

Ha. Yeah right...

It was almost as if nothing in the past hour had happened at all. And while I'd normally accept that he would be in a questionably good mood and walk away to enjoy what I could of it...

Right now, I was terrified. And my fear shook me to the core and brought me upon an ice-cold wave to new heights where my own senses went into overdrive and I briefly wondered if I'd go into cardiac arrest.

And the belated thought finally hit me as I dazedly looked into his voided eyes that..._I really did not know this, this **man** sitting mere feet from me. _

* * *

_Take a moment to review this situation. While Fagin will deal with the paperwork._


	12. Chapter Twelve

Hello fellow readers!

This one is relatively short, and not much happens at all, but due to demands that made me feel sorry for anyone hanging on for a new chapter I managed to force one out of my writer's blocked head!

Hope you enjoy!

_t_

* * *

**TWELVE**

I was in hell.

No, really, in my own mind—I was living in my own personal hell. Weeks had passed and I had learned early on that living with The Joker meant that you had to constantly stay on your toes or walk on eggshells around him or whatever. His moods were twenty times worse than a woman's during her menstruation.

I was physically and mentally exhausted from the amount of energy I would have to put into this constant state of awareness.

Because it wasn't me. This wasn't how I acted. Adelheid didn't submit to any one person!

I was alone this week. Klaus was on a school camp, I don't know where The Joker was—and frankly, I didn't care. But I was alone for the first time in a long time, with my own thoughts and my own company...

I didn't like it.

I don't think I've ever really liked anything.

It's odd, isn't it. As people we are so focussed on the things we don't like that sometimes I wonder if we still remember the things we do like, it's a prime example of how our focuses change. As children, we proudly run about yammering on about all the things we love and want and dream of—no matter how ridiculously impossible they may be to others. I think the main age when we begin our descent into this pit of hate is around the time we begin our teen years. Teenagers hate everything. Their worlds become entirely self-focussed. Everything is a personal attack against them. And really, as adults, nothing changes—we just learn to tone it down a notch.

It's rare that I'll see something worth liking in a person.

Or perhaps I'm just a little _too_ cynical.

The man I married was not the man I was currently, for lack of better word, _shacked up_ with. Oh yes, he was technically still my husband. But he just wasn't..._him_. Do you get what I mean? It wasn't Jack. I felt like a participant on that "Wife Swap" show, but the man who Jack swapped with was here to stay, on a more permanent basis.

And I _really_ didn't like it.

Right now, as I sat alone, with my thoughts—I imagined different scenarios where I wouldn't have to deal with any Jokers...

"_I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's your husband" The doctor would say, grimly, "I'm afraid he's died of boredom."_

...Oh, to dream!

* * *

I have a confession, actually—and I only hope you won't tell The Joker, for my own sake—as he would gloat over it for the rest of my existence...but, the thing is, I think, on some deeper level, we all imagine what it would be like to kill somebody.

There, I said it. Everyone loves a good murder, and secretly we all wonder what it would be like if we were the ones that did it. Kind of like that movie, American Psycho.

Look, I'm just being honest. That excuses me from empathy or tact, right?

Lately, I found myself indulging in these thoughts. Mainly, what would my life be life if Jack was dead? Would I be able to move on? Maybe I'd have met someone, someone relatively _normal_—who could be a father to Klaus, and a better husband to me...

There are time I really miss mundane things. The simplest of things, like being able to have my air supply run at a constant pace without the worry that at any given time someone's mood might turn and they'll decide to nearly strangle me. Or not having to stress over what to put the food on because someone had a tantrum and broke all the damn crockery!

I hope I'm not boring you. I haven't read many memoirs and this is my first that I'm writing (I know not a lot of people write their own). But you've made it this far, so I should send a belated warning to you—I think a lot. In fact, the majority of my writing consists of me writing my thoughts down in a coherent sentence. It's habit really, I force myself to write everything down.

I should thank my parents for that...if there's one thing they did get right, it was giving me a good work ethic, in fact, they made damn well sure I had one.

Don't get me wrong, I still hate working—but if I'm not working, I hate myself.

* * *

Somewhere, out in this overpopulated giant world, there are people wishing that they had more exciting lives. It could be you, it could be the person next to you, your best friend...it doesn't matter. The point is, there are people who wish different aspects of their lives, of themselves, were different. Everyone does it. While I wish for a more mundane life, there's another person wishing their own life was more unpredictable. If we swapped places, I wonder if you would last a day in my shoes—similarly, I also wonder if _I'd_ last a day in theirs. We don't stop to think about things, we don't wonder, when we wish for something, if we could handle it—which is why we are the way we are for that reason. Yes, you may crave something different, something exciting, something dangerous—but that doesn't mean you'd last, that doesn't mean you could live that sort of lifestyle. Yes, I wish I had more normality in my life. But I also understand that it would ruin me as a person. Because my entire life has been everything _but_ normal, and so I'd feel like an outsider in such a different setting. Does that make sense? I understand the hypocrisy of my saying that really, we should all be happy with ourselves. But we never will be. We're bored. We've been alive too long, we've discovered too many things and now all we have to look forward to is recipes and video games, technology and reality TV. Cheap thrills. That's it. Nothing excites us anymore. If the world ends in 2012 I'll be happy, because it means we might get to start from scratch again and re-discover everything. Maybe try things differently. Maybe live the next life differently.

As I sat there alone and dwelled in my boredom, I tried to ignore the small part of me that decided boredom was definitely _not_ a good thing, and that I actually _missed_ Jack...

After all, I had to return some video-tapes.

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_Why don't you leave a review, and let me know how this is going. :)_


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